


Just Desserts (Or: How Lassie learned to stop worrying and love chicken soup)

by Attic_Nights



Category: Psych, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, First Time, M/M, casefic, psychic!lassiter, supernatural themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2017-12-28 14:37:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Attic_Nights/pseuds/Attic_Nights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When trickster god Loki, former archangel Gabriel, blows into Santa Barbara, a fake psychic would seem like the perfect person on whom to work his mischief. However, chaos reigns when Lassiter is the one who's granted psychic powers. Meanwhile, a killer is on the loose and the only hope at catching them rests on Shawn and Lassie’s ability to work together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is more of a Psych fic than a Supernatural one. One may read it without prior Supernatural knowledge, as it more just fuses with a couple of minor characters and concepts within the Supernatural 'verse. 
> 
> Here in this fic might be a hodgepodge of tropes and clichés. But hey, I’m writing fanfiction. I’m not going to steal a show then expect to be original to make up for it ;) I do not lay claim to much in here, and I own neither Psych nor Supernatural. In my mind, this happens around late August/early September 2008, just before season 4 of Supernatural (before Angel Radio switched on and Pamela’s encounter with Castiel) and around Season 3 of Psych. It could even be earlier. However, it doesn’t matter too much when, since TV time is generally more stretchy than reality, and fanfiction time is doubly stretchy.
> 
> TO THE STORY:

1986:  
The moonless night stretched into his room, and the rain washed the windows as the wind made the leaves rustle. Burton Guster, meanwhile, sat cocooned in blankets, a pile of snotty tissues next to him. He hated storms, but he hated colds more. He sighed as he drank his hot chocolate, trying to express to the empty room just how tired he was of sneezing.

He held a book open on his lap. It was all about Norse mythology, and to be honest it was really quite freaky. Especially considering this was the fairytale version. Odin reminded him a little of Mr. Spencer, and Joy of Skaði. But it was Loki by whom he was most enraptured. He tricked people with his voice and powers.

He reminded Gus a little of Shawn.

* * *

The Present Day:

One might expect that the warm, easy sunshine of late summer was a change in scenery to an archangel-turned-Norse-god, and would instead prefer the cool, clear northern climates. And while it was true that Loki, or Gabriel as he once was known, did spend much of his business hours in crisp, dingy weather, there was nothing which brought greater pleasure to him than watching people be unhappy in evolutionary-ideal conditions.

Take for example that young couple walking by on the pavement. Loki observed them with golden eyes as he licked his triple-scoop ice-cream, the inner troubles of their minds leaking outwards as silently and invisibly as a gas leak. First home buyers, the girl (Sarah Finley, miscarried 3 months back) wanted a condo closer to the shore to show off to her friends, but the boy (Jerry Pankhurst, carrier for human papilloma virus, possibly from sleeping with the real estate agent to get a better deal) had insisted on a more financially viable option. Both were wallowing in each other’s unhappiness, like two halves of the same lollipop falling from the hands of a three-year old child onto an elevator floor.

Humans, such idiots. Such great diversions.

Down below on the surf, a weedy girl (Fran Coutts, lactose intolerant, dreamt of being a marine park trainer) struggled to catch the eye of her surfing peers. With an around-the-world lick of his ice-cream, Loki snapped his fingers and shaped the ocean, wind picking the girl up and bending the elements into the perfect surf.

It’s not as though Loki always created mischief, after all.

But- ah!

Here comes some mischief, as thick as honey through the air, so delicious that Loki scoffed down his ice-cream in seconds (of course, if it was pointed out, he would claim that being a god meant he never had to suffer through something as absurd as brain-freeze, but that’s neither here nor there).

Two men (close friends) bickered good-naturedly along the beach. One was dark-skinned with an admittedly magnificently shaped head (Burton Guster, memorizing for an exam on pharmaceuticals), and the other was tanned and positively bouncing as he walked (Shawn Spencer, eidetic memory, pretending to be psychic).

A fake. How delicious.

A chocolate bar materialized absentmindedly in Loki’s hand and he took a bite out of it. Deciding to undertake further investigation, Loki grinned.

* * *

 

The next 28 hours were spent in various forms. A pampered ginger cat watched Shawn and Gus eat jerk-chicken for lunch, a stray dog sniffed out the trash around the side of Psych’s office. A seagull watched Shawn speak to a blonde woman (Juliet O’Hara, recovering from a bacterial cold and trying not to show it). A squirrel listened to Shawn and Gus argue in the latter’s house as they watched _American Duos_ that night. And so on.

One might think of a Trickster god as haphazard, but in fact Loki prided himself in carrying out the perfect justice to the perfect victim. It was one of the reasons he loved picking on hypocrites—they were usually just _set up_ for the perfect downfall. But, 28 hours of surveillance yielded Shawn as someone who had all the makings of a hypocrite-yet it was merely a smokescreen for a free, easy lifestyle. Fake psychic? Yes, but only after truth was discounted. And he wasn’t lying to anyone he let close.

It was almost noble, in the way that corn chips tried not to break under the weight of guacamole. Shawn hadn’t broken, and decided to lump pineapple salsa and marshmallow squares on top. Almost disappointing. But once Loki got into the chase, he saw it through to the end.

Hour 29 saw movement, and Loki followed the blue bubble of a car (in a red 1983 Quattro, made from the soda-cans found during rifling through the trash as a dog, thank you very much) to a rough looking part of town, where police tape and a tall man cordoned off a ramshackle house and a lawn which had gone to seed.

Loki kept driving, turned a corner, reverted the car back to soda-cans and doubled back, now decked out in police uniform. He made quite a nice authoritative figure _._

 _It's a shame Sam couldn’t see me in this get-up_ , he reflected as he adjusted his cuffs. He’d have to catch up with him later, preferably in a situation where the sasquatch of a man could see him in uniform.

It is as easy as a hot knife through butter to walk into a crime scene when you act like you belong.

Loki didn’t bother changing his appearance, simply popped a chupa chup from Shawn’s apartment into his mouth as he weaved through the scene. Sometimes a small gathering of people was worse than a crowd, but he had millennia of experience to help ignore the people around him. Instead, he focused on the pull of the mind most desperate for attention.

A woman of 24 years laid in a fetal position on the dust-stained floorboards of what was once a bedroom. Her face was the color of ash. To Loki, she was just a husk, no energy, no pumping of a heart or feather-like breathing in her lungs. Her soul had long since been reaped, a few hours ago at least, and as such he could not read her as easily as he once could have. But her death had been violent. Pain clawed into the cracked walls and floors like red nails through pastry, betrayed and hated.

Already, Shawn Spencer was jumping around in a fake fit, hands pulling at an invisible barrier around his neck.

“Blue!” he was saying. “Lassie’s eyes, the same color!”

“Jane Doe, found this morning by squatters. Junkie. Strangled—”

But his body twitched, then—“Don’t fight! I’ll make you comfortable after death anyway!”

Loki’s eyes narrowed in on the body, and saw it had indeed been pulled into the fetal position after death. The rest was more of a bold supposition.

“The suspect knew the victim?” said the blonde ( _Juliet O’Hara_ , her soul supplied).

“In a way, but no… I’m sorry Jules, the spirits are just not being clear today.”

“Wonderfully vague, as always Spencer. Now get you and your ‘gift’ out of my crime scene,” said a stern-looking officer (Carlton Lassiter, divorced and didn’t see the point of making connections with people, not anymore, full of braggadocio, afraid of snow globes). He had grabbed Shawn by the arm and was in the process of manhandling him out of the house.

“But you haven’t heard my Ellen Degeneres impression yet!”

Nobody in the room saw it, but the sudden grin on Loki’s face had the power to light up all of Oslo.

* * *

 

Push. Tumble. Splat.

“Ow—Spencer!” cried Detective Lassiter.

“Hey you were the one who pushed me! I’m graceful as a swan. Gus, tell Lassie how I once did Swan Lake at the Sydney Opera House. I was the _lead_ , Lassie!”

Gus, who had been a few steps behind the pair, looked down at the regurgitation of limbs at the base of the steps leading from the front door. Well, the front door itself was missing, but at some point a dirty muslin sheet had been stapled to the frame. Lassiter, he could see, was somewhat squishing Shawn, and clutching his head.

Shawn, looking rather nonplussed, waggled his eyebrows up at Gus as he gently felt the back of his head.

“That was _Thriller_ , and we performed it in front of my mom,” Gus said, tired. “And you were not the lead, we were both zombies. Are you all right detective?” Gus stretched out a hand to Lassie, only _slightly_ worried it might get bitten off.

“Don’t be the hair trapped in the shower drain, Gus. Who could have been Michael Jackson, then?”

Surprisingly, Lassiter let himself be helped up and Gus worried about concussion. And Lassiter’s undoubted new reason to shoot them both.

“That doesn’t even make any sense Shawn. You’re white. It should have been me. But it wasn’t either of us.” Gus watched Shawn crawl to his feet and wobble upright several paces away.

“He became white!”

“Gus’ sister Joy played Michael Jackson,” grumbled Lassiter.

Shawn and Gus turned to stare at Lassiter. Lassiter, who had still been holding his forehead, froze between their twin stares.

“Is everything all right over there?” called Buzz, who had been on perimeter, monitoring the road and entrance to the property.

“Just… fine!” said Lassiter, and pretty much hurried out of the crime scene to his car.

Shawn and Gus watched in complete silence, then broke it a few seconds later with a synchronized: “That was weird.”

“Dude he’s been children-of-the-corned!”

“Do you need anything more from the crime scene?”

“No. Wait, why? We can’t go now!”

Gus was antsy and impatient, but he put on a stern face—not a fun Gus-combo in Shawn’s book. Shawn started bouncing on the balls of his feet, with his ‘please please please’ face on. But Gus was adamant.

“Oh yes we can! I don’t know how he knew that, but I want to get out of here. Eat, chill, and solve the case.”

Shawn paused. “Leftover jerk chicken?”

“You know that’s right.”

* * *

 

After Spencer and Guster had left, Carlton had gone back into the crime scene. He felt strange, hyperaware, but with the edges almost blurred in his vision. Soft voices rustled like static in his ears, and he shook his head to remove the ringing. Then he hunched and focused on his feet going up the steps and on the shadows on the ground. He pushed the muslin sheet aside. He wasn’t stupid—he was probably concussed, but he’d be damned if he left the crime scene without taking a full look of the evidence before it was packed up and moved to forensics. _Sans_ Spencer and his distracting ‘visions’.

But as he walked over the threshold, a cold feeling ran down his spine, like an icy, slimy hand was sheathing his vertebrae. He looked behind him, momentarily spooked, but the muslin sheet was the only thing there, flapping in the wind. He stood taller, wanting to convey confidence and command, but now his gaze was upright he could see his vision was worse than he first thought.

Light bled like mist from the yellowed windows, and the shadows seemed to watch and ripple as he wove through the uniformed officers towards the room with the vic. For some reason, he seemed peripherally aware of each person in the house, and not just those in the hallway with him. A sensory overload and information crammed into his head, making it throb. He clenched his fists, nails biting his palm, and walked past the overwhelming feeling of dread and into the bedroom. Fear and hatred dripped down the walls as tangible as blood, centering on the woman on the floor.

 _Jenny Coburn, last time she was happy was when she blew 24 candles out on a birthday cake,_ Carlton’s mind promptly supplied. For some reason the internal voice sounded chipper, and it reminded him of Spencer.

Just then, a sudden onslaught of images, bright as a kaleidoscope, sent him reeling back into a wall. His eyes slammed closed in an attempt to shut them out. Distantly, he heard O’Hara’s voice.

“Hit head…” he found himself answering a question he wasn’t quite sure he heard.

It was too late though (— _too late for what?_ The thought flit in and out quickly)and he watched in his mind’s eye as he saw Jenny, an alive Jenny Coburn.

No, he _was_ Jenny, and he was being attacked.

A silky scarf flashed into sight and caught taut around his neck. Swaying, he attempted to fight back, and he felt rather than saw the heaviness of her limbs, movement weighed down like whenever he tried to run in a dream. He tasted a foreign substance in his mouth. But he, _she,_ kept fighting. And the man, who looked not like a man but rather was a dark, dripping shadow of malice, blackness bleeding from where his eyes should be. He had a pale light within him that Carlton’s Catholic background identified as his soul. The pressure tightened around his throat. He went to reach up again and pull it away, pull it away before he lost consciousness, but something trapped his hands.

He focused on the hands, panicked, but to his relief he felt himself begin to swim up through the dream-murk and surface, leaving the nightmare behind him in the depths. With a racking breath, Carlton opened his eyes warily, only to see O’Hara staring back at him. He looked down at his hands and saw hers on top, holding him, grounding him. Thoughts that were not his own came unbidden through that connection, and he felt a crushing wave of worry, scented slightly like strawberries and tasted as strong as lemons. He cleared his throat.

“Let go of me, O’Hara,” he ordered, voice raspier than he liked.

True to form, O’Hara obeyed, and stood up. Unfortunately, a medic squat down in her place, and he looked the man up and down. A voice in the static whispered louder than the rest: _Freddie Maloney, concentrating on how to ask O’Hara out rather than focusing on me. Maybe she’d like to meet his puppy, Rex_.

Carlton huffed out a breath, stood abruptly, and strode out of the crime scene.

* * *

 

To be honest, Carlton was rather unsure about how he got home. He remembered the crime scene, the damn psychedelic images and voices in his head. He had a vague recollection of adjusting his rear-view mirror to look at his head, but he couldn’t be sure. He also thought he remembered a capybara behind the wheel of his vehicle though, so he could safely discount most things inside his head right about now.

Now that he was alone, he felt much more centered, and took several calming breaths in and out.  His vision still had spots of things that weren’t really there (he would bet his entire gun collection that they weren’t real) and he still felt a buzzing in his head, but it seemed to him that the concussion was definitely abating.

He went to his east-facing window and saw his car parked below on the street. Thank _god._ He must have driven here. At least that answered that question.

The sound of his cell phone ringing made him jump, and he answered it without looking at the call screen.

“O’Hara?”

“Oh my gosh Lassiter, are you okay? Where are you? Do you want me to take you to hospital?” O’Hara’s voice gushed over the tiny speaker, sounding rather flat in his four-dimensional world.

“I’m fine,” he said, hastening to calm his colleague. “I’m at home.”

“I’ll come over.” Beat. “What’s your address?”

“Don’t bother, I’m fine. Have you learnt anything about the case?”

“Well Woody has only just started the autopsy, but he mentioned he found blue fibers around her neck. Forensics is analyzing that all now.”

“What about her ID?”

“Her fingerprints ran through Interpol, and we got a near instant hit,” she said, voice rising in excitement.

“Criminal?” he guessed.

“Navy SEAL, actually.”

He thought back to the vic (he was definitely not referring to her as Jenny Coburn, no matter how much his mind filled in the unnamed gaps) and her tattered, kitsch clothes, and somehow the picture didn’t quite fit.

“What was she doing there?”

“Maybe she had some recent difficulties in her life, but I agree it’s a bit strange. Oh, and get this, Jenny Coburn was honorably discharged 18 months ago. Lassiter? Detective?”

But Carlton just flipped his phone shut, feeling shaken.

* * *

 

It was absurd. But what could go wrong?

Everything. Be made a mockery.

Even worse, a hypocrite.

Carlton shuddered. The voices were louder.

But what else could he do?

Dark double-exposure emotions over his wall of criminals and case files. Bleeding, dripping.

He didn’t need help, he could manage this himself.

No, he didn’t think he could.

While still indecisive, he pressed the ‘call’ button on his cell.

“Sir Brigadier Alistair Shawn Spencer the Third of Normandy, speaking.”

“Spencer.”

“Lassie! To what do I owe the honor of this call? Unless you phoned up because you know what Gus spies. Hint: it’s not doritos.”

Carlton shook the familiar non sequitur from his head. “Can I see you?”

“Oh Lassie, I thought you would never ask! How about we go to _Harvelle’s Juicy Smoothies_ , share the juice of a pineapple and walk hand in hand along the beach as the sun sets?”

His brain picked up only the relevant information. At least his bullshit filter was still working.

“Fine,” he answered. “I’ll see you there in 15 minutes.”

* * *

 

Meanwhile, Shawn listened to the dial tone for a few seconds, totally _not_ stunned.

“Dude!”

“What, Shawn?”

“Lassie totally asked me out on a date!”

“Now why don’t I believe that, Shawn?”

Shawn cocked his head. “He probably had his bullshit filter on,” he conceded, sighing.

“Lassiter has one of those too? Hm,” Gus said, and turned back to his study.

* * *

 

Afternoon sunk sluggishly over the horizon as Carlton drove himself to the little row of shops that housed _Harvelle’s_ and parked outside. When he drove this time, the entire world seemed to thrum again, the energy from each person he passed nearly tangible. At one point, stopped at a red light, he felt the sensation of love, and it reminded him so much of the early days of dating his wife— _ex-wife_ —that he turned around and traced the source to a young teenage couple holding hands.

He had spent the rest of the drive in surly mood, and he was still shaking off the vestiges as he got out of the car. A boy of about 5 nearly ran into him a few meters from the shop front, and immediately he found he could call up the boy’s name, purpose and potential in life. At least, he thought he did.

 _What I’m thinking is impossible_ , he reminded himself.

At the counter, he ordered two smoothies: one mango and blueberry, the other pineapple. He also ignored the loud whispers in his head that Juan, the server, was born a Juanita and was scared his chaste girlfriend could find out. As he got out the money and the buy-one-get-one-free coupon he conveniently had in his wallet, the world slowly went silent.

It was gentle enough that he didn’t notice at first, but when his fingers brushed Juan’s during the transaction, he felt jarred to notice that _nothing out of the ordinary happened._ Since when did normal get weird?

He turned around at the touch of a hand on his shoulder and thought ever since – _ah_. Since Shawn Spencer. Of course.

Suspicious, he subtly cocked his head to the left and then right and found that everything was gone, from the weird eye-sight to the otherworldly hum.

“Heya Lass! Got water in your ears?” Not subtly enough then. “Ooh you got me a smoothie, thanks babe!”

“Babe?” Carlton was pleased to hear that his voice was an appropriate growl.

But Shawn merely removed his hand from Carlton’s shoulder to grab his smoothie (managing, somehow, to pick the correct one) and once again Carlton felt a slight blurring of his vision. He tried not to feel too disappointed.

Thankfully though, as Shawn continued his inane chatter—something about Captain Crunch—the concussion’s effects didn’t worsen, but remained a slight, easily brushed-aside buzz. His head felt clear and light. He found himself seated at a booth across from Shawn, who was suddenly quiet, sucking his pineapple smoothie through the straw with hollowed cheeks.

Shawn looked up and for a brief second made eye-contact with Carlton. He felt a sudden heat rush through him as he got the sense that this was rather too close to a date than he was comfortable with.

But then Shawn smiled his mega-watt smile and Carlton found himself opening his mouth and speaking.

“How do you do it?”

“Usually with a back-hand lob, running into a forward roll. You see, it’s all about distracting your opponent into missing it.”

“Missing what?” he felt genuinely confused.

“The tennis ball of course!” Shawn happily chose that moment to take another slurp through the straw.

“Are you really psychic?” direct approach. Should work. Slightly more awkward though, he was finding.

Shawn simply shook his head at him and tutted. “Of course I am,” he said.

He tried a different tack. “I hit my head on yours, are you concussed too?”

“I didn’t know you cared,” Shawn smiled, and Carlton was instantly glad for it. “But, no. Barely a bruise. I must have a hard head.”

“If one was to believe in psychics—not that you are one, of course… how would the…” _damn it._

“…Psychic process occur? Lassie, you know I can’t give away my trade secrets.” He admonished him as though he were a naughty child badmouthing Santa.

Carlton sipped his drink with some difficulty, finding it thicker than anticipated. “Damn it Spencer. Just, do you have any psychic colleagues? Or something?” Because there was one thing that Carlton could still cling onto, and that was the surety that Spencer was _not_ psychic.

Shawn looked wounded. “Thinking of replacing me, Lass? Well, the best one I know of is Pamela in Illinois but she probably won’t like to come all the way up here. Hot as hotcakes, though. Missouri in Kansas makes a mean butterscotch snap cookie, if that’s more your thing. If male is more your type, there’s Chuck but—”

Oddly enough, Carlton found his mind wandering as Shawn listed off random names. Even if they were real people, a feeling in his gut told him he would much prefer to stay around someone he knew and, with a pang at the realization, someone who he trusted.

“No,” he sighed. “You’re more than enough for me.”

“Oh Lassie, I do declare!” and Shawn actually fluttered his lashes and mock-swooned.

If Shawn was going to say anything more, it was interrupted by Carlton’s cell phone ringing.

“Lassiter.”

Shawn looked up imploringly from where his mouth was vacuuming up the dregs of his drink. Carlton averted his eyes, feeling his face heat up.

“Hey, it’s me,” said O’Hara’s voice. “I was just wondering if you were coming back down to the station today? I mean it’s fine if you want to take the rest of the day off after hitting your head—”

“No, I’ll come in. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Thirteen,” said Shawn.

Carlton hung up and stared at him.

“It will take thirteen minutes for us to get there, not ten,” Shawn said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“This is not your case, so god-forbid if you follow me…” But there was no heat in his words, and Shawn knew it. He turned and left, taking his smoothie for the road.

“I’ll see you in thirteen minutes Lassie!”

* * *

 

Shawn watched Lassiter go, brow furrowed and flipped out his phone and texted Gus to meet him at the station, pronto. There was something up with Lassiter, it would take an idiot not to notice. And while Shawn wanted to help Lassie as much as possible, a part of him cautioned that it might all be a ruse to get him to admit his fraud. He didn’t think that was so, but because that voice was there at all, he decided to keep it safe and evasive for once. For now, at least.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Carlton sighed as he pulled up into the SBPD parking lot, making the journey in exactly thirteen minutes. He’d even taken corners faster than he usually did, just to prove Spencer wrong.

Before he got out of the car he rubbed a hand against his temple. Since leaving Shawn, the white noise had returned rather rapidly, and more than a handful of times he had wanted to pull over, curl up in the backseat, and forget about the world. But he was no pansy, so he had pushed on. Still, he was not looking forward to going into a building full of people.

He walked up the steps and through the main doors of the department. While he did so, a cascade of information washed over him, threatening to drown him. He knew where everyone was instinctively within a certain radius—at least 10 meters, since he felt O’Hara before he saw her rounding the corner up ahead. She felt warm and golden, dependable and smelled slightly like strawberries. Wiping his sweating hands on his jacket, Carlton headed on over to his partner.

As he walked through, the hush of sound and sight began to dim to a more comfortable lull. The cause for this respite seemed to stand irresistibly beside his desk, talking to O’Hara.

“Lassie! About time, I was going to send out a search party!” cried Shawn, all but flinging himself at the head detective. A small part of him was slightly disappointed when the younger man didn’t, and longed to close the short distance and touch him, to get completely rid of the infuriating head trauma he was saddled with. An even smaller part asked whether that was even the real reason.

Lassiter mentally shook his head and outwardly glared at Shawn.

“I thought I told you this wasn’t your case.”

“The spirits told me you will need me.”

 _How could Spencer possibly understand that garble of noise, if he were indeed psychic? But no, that would be assuming that what he was going through was indeed a psychic phase, and_ nope _,_ no _he_ definitely _was_ not.

“Lassiter! How are you feeling?” O’Hara’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Better,” he said, technically not even lying. “What have we got?”

“I was thinking we should bring Shawn in on this one?” she asked.

“He might be useful,” he conceded after a few moments. God, but those words were easier to say than he wanted.

“Who are you and what have you done with Detective Lassiter?” Shawn gasped extravagantly.

“You got that right,” said Gus, materializing from somewhere behind him.

“ _Head_ detective.”

O’Hara smiled and led the way to the conference room. Once inside, he sat down next to Shawn, and she handed him a file. The papers inside were still warm from the copier. Gus sat next to O’Hara, and Chief Vick sat at the head.

Carlton was wary of another onslaught of queries about his health, but to the Chief’s credit she launched right into the case, not even acknowledging Shawn and Gus’ presence.

“The victim was one Jenny Coburn, 24. A navy SEAL until 18 months ago, honorably discharged. Strangled with something made of blue silk. Nice pick, Mr. Spencer. From what we have learned so far, Ms. Coburn had been treated for PTSD until 10 months ago, when she dropped off the official map.”

“She had Penguin Transit Sleeping Disease?” asked Shawn.

“It stands for post-traumatic stress disorder,” said Gus.

“Was she drugged?” Carlton thought back to the heavy feeling Jenny had felt when being attacked.

“Aside from the numerous needle marks already on her body, presumably from recreational drug use, we cannot say for sure until the tox screen comes back,” Chief Vick leaned forwards on her arms, a considering look on her face. “Did you see some evidence at the crime scene that led you to that conclusion, detective?”

Carlton felt his face grow slightly warm as he remembered how he had come across that assumption. _And that’s all it was, an assumption_ , he told himself. “Not really, Chief, just a hunch. I would assume someone like her would know how to fight back.”

“Well, we’ll see how that goes soon enough. I trust you to know what needs to be done now then, Lassiter?”

He gave a curt nod. “Retrace her steps, interview people who know what happened to her when she dropped off the map, and why. Interview shady characters who might know why she turned into a junkie. Find out if she owed money, or who she might have pissed off. A list of contacts and associates. I want next of kin in interview rooms, too.”

“On it,” said O’Hara, jotting down the angles she hadn’t yet thought of (there were only a couple, he could _tell_ , and while he was half proud of her progress he was also half jealous of her competency. It should have been him on the job the past couple of hours, already compiling and profiling, instead of sitting around his apartment like a wet fish).

“Oh and Detective Lassiter?” said Chief Vick, in that ‘innocent’ voice of hers.

“Yes, Chief?” he was immediately on edge for what she was about to ‘suggest’.

“Go home. Have someone look after you if you can. You’re obviously concussed, and no use here yet.”

“But chief, the investigation—“

“Will go on perfectly okay for now without you. You can come in tomorrow. Anything else, Detective?”

Carlton swallowed his words. “No, ma’am.”

Outside in the bull pen, O’Hara said goodbye and slipped him a copy of the case file to read at home. He thanked her, then looked around for Shawn and Gus, feeling a wave of panic as his vision became as hazy as a low-budget horror-film. A thousand voices clamored for attention, a hundred shadows prowled and clawed. He caught sight of the consultants up ahead near the exit, and he walked briskly to catch up. For whatever reason, for whatever giant cosmic joke which was upon him, he now craved peace with the same person who gave him more gray hairs than his divorce. He could use Shawn—that much was clear.

“Spencer!” he tried to inflict a bit of growl into his voice, which was wasted when Shawn spun around, grinning.

“Lassie!”

“I want to speak to you alone.” He eyed Gus, who in turn hastily turned to Shawn and made his excuses, hopefully driving off alone in his blueberry of a car.

“So forceful, Lassie. Are you like this in the bedroom too, or do you like to give up that control? I can work with either, but honestly I’d prefer the former.”

Carlton resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Unfortunately, riding on the back of that comment, his brain unhelpfully supplied the phrase: “I want you to come home with me.”

Then again, the actual shock on Spencer’s face was almost worth the embarrassment of the butchered statement’s unintended euphemism.

“What I mean is, I am concussed,” Carlton rushed, and then paused, running a sheepish hand through the hair at the nape of his neck. “You heard Chief Vick in there, and she’s… right. I need someone to make sure I don’t get any worse.” _And I want it to be you, since you have managed to become some sort of psychic white noise vacuum. Blocker._

“Lassie, I would be honored.”

“Good, I didn’t really want you to say yes an- wait, really?”

Shawn’s face was smiling, a genuine, soft and personal smile. It felt more intimate than a cuddle, and part of Carlton balked at the plan. Unfortunately for that part, it was small and being drowned out with promises of peace and comfort.

“Sure. I’ll fire up my Norton Commando 750— unless you want to drive me there, and I’ll meet up with you.”

“You’re not going anywhere near my car. Again,” Carlton frowned. “But how do you know where I live?”

Shawn didn’t answer verbally, only putting one hand up in his ‘I’m Psychic’ gesture against his temple.

* * *

 

The drive to Lassie’s apartment was incredibly slow. It seemed that every time Shawn pulled too far away from Lassie’s car, Lassie took the opportunity to slow down. And while Shawn normally would have been happy to tailgate, a concussed Lassie still in possession of his firearm was a force Shawn didn’t want to dance with. Well, he kind of did want to dance, and he sighed when he realized how responsible he was getting for his (and others’, he supposed) safety.

So, slow speed. Either Lassie really believed that Shawn could get lost on the way (which opened up a can of worms, since when did Lassie not want to have Shawn get lost?) or something else was at play. Perhaps Lassie had some kind of super magnet attaching the two cars, or he was Sandra Bullock with a bomb under his car which meant he couldn’t go over 30. Of course, that was the opposite of _Speed,_ but Shawn was clearly Keanu Reeves here.

The slow pace did give Shawn time to reflect, though, and he thought about all that had gone on that day and came to a few worrying conclusions.

His _Phrase of the Day_ calendar had said this morning “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth”. But unfortunately, the impossible seemed to fit better than anything even slightly improbable, or realistic.

Still, truth can be the most unbelievable thing. Shawn shifted down the gears and pulled in behind Lassie’s car outside his apartment.

Let him go into the unbelievable.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must apologise if I get some American terminology wrong. I'm British and there are limits to what I can self-beta, like correct usage and stuff. Let me know if there are any glaring errors, would you darlings? PS: It plain hurts to spell colour without a 'u', it looks so naked :O

Carlton watched Shawn take stock of his apartment and tried not to appear self-conscious. The place was very narrow and very temporary, shaped in an “L” block with the bathroom next to the kitchen-slash-living room, and the bedroom down the end of the hall.

“There’s a spare comforter in the closet in the hall.” Carlton didn’t feel the need to point out the obvious fact that Shawn was to sleep on his only couch.

Shawn, however, was already glancing at the files he had pegged around the place like some sort of mural to crime. He was saying something, but after spending all day trying to ignore his senses, Carlton ignored that too, and flipped idly through the current case file. When Shawn got to the folders on the fridge, Carlton sighed and placed the Coburn case onto the cheap bench top, feeling exhausted.

“Make yourself at home. I’m going to get some rest.”

He turned and made his way down the other end of his apartment to his bedroom, missing the worried look on Shawn’s face, and ignored him saying something about concussion and not sleeping. Not bothering to turn on the light, he toed off his shoes and stripped down to his boxers, before he crawled under the covers. He spent a while lying there, trying to swallow against the lights bleeding through his eyelids— lights that, when he opened his eyes, weren’t actually in the room with him.

He was aware of every soul around him, those closer more pungent and demanding for attention. In the darkness, their voices were forceful. Mary Golightly, someone who apparently lived above him but whom he’d never met, was currently eating curry and watching what could only be porn. He could feel her hunger and desire drip hot through the ceiling like molasses. He thought about the case, trying to recall every detail from the scene and the file.

Junkie. Needle marks. Drugged? If so, tranquilizers were hard to come by, and as such could be tracked.

Somewhere behind him, excitement came bubbling through the wall like pink lemonade: three boys welcoming their mother home. She was tired, her feet and back hurt but what was stronger than all that was the sense of relief and peace. Maternal love. He focused on what he had experienced in his earlier ‘vision’ (and how that word smarted), and tried to make sense of it. Almost everything aside from him knowing her name could be explained away as a sympathetic fit. Perhaps he had met her at some stage when she was still a SEAL. Yes, now that he thought of it, he reckoned she always looked familiar.

Ignored the sudden crashing and burning as flames of hatred licked through the wall to his right. The girl next door had just found her boyfriend had slept with Robin Friels, whoever that was. He felt her pick up something sentimental, and snap the figure in her hands, loss splintering her skin.

He sighed, and focused on the mental silence coming from the direction of the kitchen. With a jolt he found that he could hear real noises, ones from cupboards opening and cutlery clashing. He zeroed in on the cloud of peace and he drifted off listening to the long forgotten noises of someone cooking in his kitchen.

* * *

 

 _Blood—there was so much blood! The man shivered and swallowed, bile bubbling up in his throat. What he was doing was necessary, he reminded himself. He couldn’t be implicated, and she shouldn’t be dead. But seeing the tendons slowly snap as he sawed her bones made the last much harder to believe. She must not be found._ Squelch _._

 _She was_ his. _It was that whore’s fault—_ she _made his beloved like this._

They are all alike, _he mused,_ whores, that is _. He smiled slowly and paused in his sawing as a plan unfolded in the front of his mind._

* * *

 

Carlton gasped, the terror of the dream still flashing in his mind, strongly enough that he was still half-asleep. The pungent smell of blood had been so real; he could practically taste the metallic scent. He swallowed bile and looked wildly at his hands where they had a moment ago felt slick with blood, when they had carved slowly and messily into her lifeless, empty body. Someone was calling his name, but he couldn’t answer. He thrashed about blindly, his legs trapped by something. He had done something horrible, it hurt, so much that no one else should feel this; it was _his_ pain. 

Suddenly, he felt someone’s hands grasp his shoulders, and the feel of skin against skin immediately grounded him and woke him more swiftly and kindly than any alarm clock he had ever known. Blinking, he looked at his savior, eyes adjusting to the brightness of the room. Shawn crouched above him, hair haloed by the bedside lamp.

“Lassie, are you okay?” his voice was real. Solid.

Carlton found he could only nod.

Shawn’s eyes tracked over his face and Carlton watched him, not wanting to risk closing his eyes again. After a few seconds, Shawn spoke. “I made some chicken soup. I’ll bring it in.”

Shawn gently removed his hands from Carlton’s shoulders and he panicked, catching Shawn’s hand as it drew back. He felt the warm hand rest in his own for a few seconds, then cleared his throat, embarrassed.

“No… I mean yes, but I’ll go with you, to the kitchen,” he let the hand go reluctantly, schooling his face.

Shawn was still watching him, as though he was reading him, and knew exactly what he was thinking, but didn’t know why. Carlton reached down and freed his legs from where they had become tangled in the sheets. He felt rather than saw Shawn watch him get up, and suddenly felt a bit self-conscious in his boxers. He opened his wardrobe and grabbed some sweats and an old t-shirt, pulling them on hurriedly. 

He led the way down the hall to the kitchen, Shawn’s solid presence right behind him. The warm smell of chicken and herbs suddenly made his stomach growl, and he realized he hadn’t properly eaten for some hours. The clock on his microwave glowed 19:17 and he inwardly groaned. He’d only been asleep about an hour, too. The glow on the microwave seemed duller than he remembered— the world still somehow brighter than LED lights.

He let Shawn guide him onto one of the two chairs behind the kitchen counter, enjoying the brief contact, the righting of the world to its balance, trusting the way Spencer seemed to know what he wanted, when he wanted.

That made sense in a way, he reflected as he watched the younger man ladle soup from a large pan into a bowl. The fake psychic always knew exactly how to push his buttons, rile him up, toeing the line and dancing around his boundaries. It would make sense that he could also use that talent for good instead of mischief.

The bowl was placed in front of him with a spoon already in it, and he inhaled the warm smell. It reminded him of when he was a boy and sick, and his grandmother had looked after him. A thought crossed his mouth when he placed the first spoonful (thankfully not too hot) into his mouth.

“I didn’t think I had chicken soup.”

Shawn sat down next to him with his own bowl. “You didn’t. You had something far more magical,” he paused dramatically. “Ingredients.”

“You made this from scratch?” 

“Technically, I cheated a little. Like, there was no chopping of fresh parsley from the Alps of Switzerland, watered only by the tears of alpacas. Tears of happiness, of course, since they’re in the land of chocolate. They’re a humane lot, the Swiss, or is that Swedes? Which one’s the root vegetable? Or, for that matter, the slicing of any onions, grown in the desert of some place in Canada, on top of God’s Thumb. You did manage to have garlic though, I was impressed.”

“I didn’t even know I owned a ladle,” he admitted. Despite Shawn’s excuses, the soup was very good, and he felt himself get back to a more normal sense of calm. Still, slight residual tremors shot through him every once in a while.

“So,” said Shawn, suddenly sounding serious. It was a strange sound. “Want to talk about your nightmare then? Or anything else?”

“Not particularly.”

“Let me rephrase. You will tell me, or I will pour soup down your pants and take photos to put on this year’s Christmas cards.”

“You wouldn’t _live_ to send those cards.”

“Come on Lassie,” he wheedled. “Better out than in, I always say.”

“I thought that was Shrek. On… burping.”

“You’ve seen _Shrek_?” Shawn shook his head. “Anyway, point still stands. Tell me what went on in that magnificent Head Detective skull of yours.”

“I had a nightmare,” he said, firmly. “That’s all. Hazard of the job.”

The silence from Shawn was terrifying, much more so than his comical look of reprimand on his face.

“I have been…” he paused, then changed what he was about to say. “The dream was of me-- but not _me--_ cutting up the body of a woman.” He glared at Shawn, challenge clear. Daring him for the joke, the teasing, the obscure movie reference.

“How old was she?”

“Why…?” He thought back, remembering the firmness of her legs and softness of her dark skin. “She was young, black, maybe teenaged, or even early 30’s. I couldn’t see her face.” _I was chopping her lower half, at that point._

“Then what happened?”

Carlton swallowed down the rising frustration. “I don’t know; there was just so much blood. Too much. I could taste it, smell it, feel it.” All of a sudden he felt drained and hollow. “He, _I,_ loved her, but hated what she did. I don’t even know what she did, but for some reason it was someone else’s fault.”

“Why kill her then?”

“I don’t know, I was only chopping her up!” he breathed through his nose. “I think he might have killed someone else, too. Or planned to. I’m not sure. I woke up pretty much after I started thinking about other people. Whores, or something.”

He looked down at his bowl. It was empty. A quick glance revealed Shawn had somehow finished too. He raised a hand to his temple and massaged it, a faint buzz of noise still persistent, but at least it was ignorable.

He wanted it to go away completely.

“There’s something more. Psychic, remember?”

He glared at Shawn, silent. If anything, Carlton’s experiences over the past half day had only cemented his belief that Shawn wasn’t. How could he possibly be, and still be as sprightly as he was? It was beyond human limits. Still, he didn’t comment, only glared sullenly at the man. Shawn merely continued talking in his silence, unbidden.

“You’ve been acting more like a Martian than normal,” Shawn said, and waved his hand dismissively. “No, don’t thank me, I’m just observant. Seriously though, and don’t you say anything about how hard it is for me to be serious, but what’s going on? Come on Lassie, it can’t be concussion, as much as you seem to want to believe. Concussion and I are old friends, and I’m sorry, but you’re two towns shy of a country away from it. Dude, you don’t even have a mark from where you hit your head.”

“I’m going mad.” There, that was the most logical explanation. To his surprise, Shawn put his hand on Carlton’s, and shook his head furiously. Carlton focused on the flailing head, which was now easier without the slightly hazed vision of a moment before.

“No, no, no, no! You’re not mad. That would be like Rowan Atkinson doing straight drama. Elton _John_ going straight. I mean, they could try, but it would be madness. No, you may be slightly strange and bull-headed and terrible at first dates, but not mad.”

Carlton glared at him, feeling slightly stung. Some parody of confusion crossed Shawn’s face and he felt the fight go out of him, like nothing he could do could ever actually make him sink lower than Shawn’s expectations of him.

“I’ve been seeing things. Weird—” he continued on, stopping Shawn from commenting. “Weird, not-there things. I know things about people I may not even know, stuff they’ve never told me, but want me, or anyone, to know anyway. Names. I feel other people’s feelings, they leak out… like heat through a cold room. I see things, blurred, not quite there, not really. If that’s not madness, tell me what is, Spencer.”

To his surprise, Shawn withdrew his hand, and with a pang he felt the world blur up again, but only faintly. “You’re going psychic?” Shawn didn’t actually phrase it quite like a question. Rather, like he was reevaluating something. Possibly his world views.

 _That’s right, not everyone’s a fake_ , he thought, somewhat embarrassed by how cruel the little voice in his mind sounded.

“You’re a man of reason, Lassie. Aside from funky feelings, why do you think you’re psychic?”

“I knew Coburn’s name before O’Hara told me it. I felt her die.”

“You could have met her before,” Shawn paused. “Is that when you collapsed at the crime scene?”

He nodded. “She was scared, but kept fighting. She was strong, but felt heavy. She—the last time she was truly happy was when she blew the candles out on her 24th birthday.”

“Well, since her birthday was only 8 days ago, that’s not too bad of an existence, Lassie,” said Shawn softly, smiling.

 For some reason, that made him feel slightly happier, but confused. Why would a junkie, ex-navy or not, bother with a birthday cake, candles and all?

“So say you’re really going medium. Does this mean that you know all about me too?”

It may have been a trick of the light, but Carlton was sure that he saw fear flicker over Shawn’s face as he took his time answering.

Eventually, he shook his head in the negative. “No. You’re like a black hole; the closer I get to you physically, the less ‘psychic’”, and he did air quotes and immediately hated himself for using them, “I get. Or feel. But it’s just you; everyone else just seems to make it worse.”

“Physically close? At least take me on a second date before we try paddling in an oatmeal bathtub.”

 _Second date? When did we have the first?_ Carlton ended up just sighing, filing it away as not important. “I thought you never made it to second dates.”

“Lassie! I’m wounded, really I am. Second dates are for important people. I think. That's the conventional way, right? Now, I need to freshen up before I hit the head.”

“Hay. It’s hit the hay.”

“I’ve heard it both ways.”

“There are some towels in a closet somewhere, the unused toothbrush is yellow. Don't touch my stuff!”

Carlton watched Shawn find the right closet first try, and then close the bathroom door. The buzzing in his head was getting more persistent, colors bleeding around the edges. A sudden dark shape flew across his vision and sent him reeling. Shawn was only a few meters away, he should be able to cope. But still, he started to shake again, convinced he was going to have another dream, but he was not going to wake up this time. Because he never really went to sleep. He’d be trapped, like inside a snow globe, being burnt by falling flakes of blood. Shawn wouldn’t want to wake him up again; he wouldn’t want to help the same man who belittled him all the time.

As the shower turned on, Carlton all but crawled to the bathroom, sitting down at the door, felt the solid weight of wood at his back and closed his eyes to the color of blood.

* * *

 

Meanwhile, Shawn gleefully lathered himself up with Lassie’s _Old Spice_ body wash, imagining the look on Gus’ face when his ‘super-sniffer’ worked out where his friend had stayed the night. The situation with Lassiter was much more troubling, however. Shawn believed him when he said he thought he was going psychic, and he wasn’t sure why. Well, a million different observations backed his claim up, but the question was _why_ and _how._

He couldn’t go to Henry on this one; that much was obvious.

He knew of psychics, through conventions and mutual friends, and they seemed to be the real deal, at least in the way that they knew it was an eidetic memory and keen observation that he had, not a ‘gift.’ But the number of what he could call ‘true’ psychics was fewer than the fingers on one hand. He never told Gus that he actually believed in them, because _dude—_ the guy believed in mummy-curses and talismans, but psychics? Not in a million years. He wasn’t sure what was myth and what was reality much anymore, his medium contacts allowed that much. The best he could do was observe and deduct, like a modern-day Sherlock Holmes (Jeremy Brett, not Robert Downey Jr.). Although he did have RDJ’s hair.

If something actually supernatural happened, like his gut was telling him was going on with this situation, he’d much prefer referring it to a real expert. Especially since finding out that ghosts were always bad, revengerous news, and never as cuddly as Casper made them seem.

With that thought in mind, he resolved to call Pamela in the morning. She even had Skype, and could possibly set things straight.

As he rinsed and repeated, he thought about Lassie. The man was spooked, that much was sure. He seemed to react well to Shawn’s proximity, and while Shawn was totally cool with that, he also worried that he could be taking advantage of the situation. He liked to make things up-front so they don’t simmer and come up before they’re ready. But courtly advances in this situation would end, most likely, with a punch and a ‘get out’. Lassie needed support, _yes_ , and was more receptive to Shawn, _tick_ , but that didn’t mean that he should get attached. He must _not_ spoil things with the detective.

 _I_ , he thought as he toweled himself off, _need to be careful_.

Looking around for clean clothes, he suddenly remembered he had none. Thinking to borrow some of Lassie’s he tied the towel around his waist and opened the bathroom door. To his surprise, Lassiter was on the other side, and fell backwards into Shawn with a flailing of limbs.

“Whoa there Lassie!” Shawn heaved the detective upright, feeling flushed at the sudden proximity.

“Don’t leave.” Lassie’s wide, blue eyes looked imploringly into Shawn’s, and his hands gripped Shawn’s arms. The man seemed slightly absent in his gaze, glazed as if he were trapped in his own mind.

“Who said anything about me going anywhere? I’ll stand by you like Ben E. King.” Shawn had no idea what had worked Lassie up into such a state, but he could do his best to reverse it.

“Come on Lassie, let’s get you to bed. Think I can borrow some of your clothes? We’ll make it a proper sleepover.”

Worryingly, the usually uptight detective once again allowed himself to be manhandled, this time to his room. As they went along, he turned out the hall and kitchen lights. He pushed Lassie onto the bed, and went to turn and open Lassie’s wardrobe to fish out the pair of sweats he remembered seeing, but Lassie held tight onto his hand, his baby blues closed. Unbalanced, Shawn fell to the bed, towel thankfully staying in place.

“Just, stay here Spencer. _Please._ ” Gosh, even when holding hands, he could manage to turn on his alpha-dog voice.

“I’ll just get some pants—”

“Stay.”

“Boxers?”

Lassie grunted and tightened his grip on Shawn _._

“Damn, I totally nailed it when I said you’d be forceful in bed,” Shawn smiled, and caught sight of Lassie’s eyebrows drawing together. His brain was probably catching up on his actions. “It’s okay,” Shawn found himself saying. “You need to sleep, and you’ll sleep better if I’m here too, right? Personal black hole and all that.”

Lassie nodded and laid down until his head was on the pillow, dragging Shawn with him. The pillow smelt like gun oil and cheap detergent. And a tiny bit like Lassie.  As bedside light was extinguished, he tentatively wrapped his arms around Lassie, pulling him to his side. The man resisted, and Shawn felt his stomach drop. But Lassie simply shimmied out of his shirt and sweats, and then pulled himself flush against Shawn.

The last two things Shawn thought of before he dropped off were: one, that this was weird and slightly, unfortunately doomed; and two, he prayed to the fluffy angels in heaven that his towel would stay in place.


	4. Chapter 4

Morning came slowly and fuzzily to Shawn. His lower half was lying on something rough, like a towel, but he was being spooned by someone warm. His sleepy mind noted how nicely they fit together, a warm and slightly calloused hand resting near his bellybutton. It was only when he was taking stock of whose limbs were whose, that he realized a certain appendage was nestling into his lower back. A man, well, it’s been a while since that happened. He then noticed that the other man was still wearing boxers, and with a jolt he woke up entirely, the night’s previous events rushing back.

He was in bed with Head Detective Carlton Lassiter, SBPD. Cue freak-out time.

Except, he was too comfortable for a freak-out, and wound up only feeling sad that this was probably the only time this would ever happen. And gosh, the amount that hurt was certainly new.

He listened to the regular breaths fluttering against his neck, and ascertained that Lassie was definitely still asleep. Okay, time to take stock of the situation. He probably had morning breath and his hair was a likely mess. At some point in the night, his towel had come undone. Inevitable really, it was only a fool’s hope that it wouldn’t. Still, this meant that he was currently buck naked, and Lassie’s clothed erection (and _wow_ ) was resting at the base of his ass. A small whine escaped his lips as his own morning wood twitched and hardened further, drawing itself closer to where Lassie’s hand was innocently resting. A part of him desperately wanted to widen his thighs slightly and take Lassie’s cock between them, to have it reach just behind his balls and provide the man with the friction he deserved.

The more cowardly part of him told him to stay still, or better yet, get out of the embrace before Lassie woke up.

With careful, slow movements, he slid his legs apart from Lassie’s and wiggled his bottom half away. The arm around him slid upward to his pecs, hand brushing his right nipple. Trying to reclaim the towel was less fruitful, as Lassie was lying on it too. His upper back was still pressed against the man’s chest though, and for a few blissful minutes he enjoyed the warmth and slight tickle from Lassie’s chest hair.

Then the phone rang. Lassiter jolted beside him, hand groping, then froze, presumably because he realized there was no soft breast to go with his partner’s nipple. Shawn decided to play the ‘just waking up’ card and wriggled restlessly away, giving Lassie more room to answer the phone. Unfortunately, Lassie’s other hand remained trapped beneath Shawn, but with a bit of awkward maneuvering, Lassie was able to answer the phone.

“Lassiter.” Lassie’s voice was sleep-gravelly and impossibly dark, and _gosh_ if Shawn wasn’t already hard he would have been now. As it was, Shawn just eavesdropped and tried to will his cock into submission.

“It’s Juliet. Look, how are you feeling this morning?”

“Fine, great, perfect.”

“Really?” her tiny voice rung out through the phone’s speaker. “Look, we can talk about this later. We’re being called out.”

“What is it? Is it connected to the body we found yesterday?”

“We’re not sure yet,” Jules hesitated. “Not in a literal sense, either. A homeless man found an arm in a bin there.”

Shawn could hear Lassie swallow. “An arm? What’s the address?”

* * *

 

To say the morning was awkward was a bit of an understatement, but not by much. Lassie disappeared into the bathroom soon after the phone call, allowing Shawn to get dressed, listening to the sound of the shower going. He borrowed a pair of Lassie’s boxers and a casual t-shirt, over which he threw his own pants and long sleeved shirt. He finger combed his hair, borrowed Lassie’s spray deodorant, and moved into the kitchen to fix some breakfast. He also texted Gus the address of the crime scene.

He was in the middle of trying to work out the coffee machine (it was demon-spawn, he would bet his life on it) when Lassie walked out, dressed in his suit and tie, hair only slightly wet. The man looked like a petulant child, and Shawn stepped aside to let him access the coffee device, which had been making frightening spluttering noises.

“Still getting visions then?”

“The world’s too loud,” the detective grumbled, flipping a switch and soothing the coffee beast. “Sarah next door is crying on her friend Joe’s shoulder. Break-up. Joe desires her though.”

He got out two cups, and then like magic, the pot was full of coffee. Lassie heaped his usual cream and sugar mix, while Shawn took his black.

Four minutes later saw the pair speeding towards Upper State Street. Shawn got out his cell and waved it around.

“I’m going to phone a psychic friend of mine. Pamela, I mentioned her yesterday. If anyone knows what’s going on here, it will be her. She’s like the Big Brother of the spirit world.”

Lassie nodded, not taking his eyes off the road.

Shawn listened to the dial tone, put the phone on speaker, and smiled when a husky voice answered.

“Shawn Spencer! Long time no phone call. I was thinking you’d forgotten all about me.”

“How on heaven and earth and everywhere in between could anyone forget you, Pam?”

“Now, now, stop that. I know this isn’t a social call. What have you got for me, spud?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” Shawn paused then decided to jump right into it. “I have a friend who hit his head and now thinks he’s psychic.”

There was a brief, slightly incredulous silence on the line. “Well, I can ask around, but that shouldn’t happen, not like that.”

“I figured as much.”

“How can I stop it?”

“Why hello there grumpy! Why, it really is a _friend_ with a problem!” chuckled Pamela.

“Detective Carlton Lassiter, SBPD speaking.”

“Well detective. You sure you’re really psychic?”

“The world’s loud, my visions all glow-y, I _know_ things I don’t want to know, and I have an un-tuned radio station stuck in my head.”

Pamela barked out another laugh, sounding more relaxed. “Sounds about right, then. Well, have you come across any weird, old cursed objects?”

Lassie frowned. “No.”

“Any weird, tattooed or oddly-acting people?”

“I’m a police officer, I see nothing but.”

“How about people with black eyes?”

“What? What is this? Of course not!”

“Hey, hey! You’re the one who thinks he’s psychic, big boy. Now, does your power come and go, or does it remain the same? It can’t be too bad at the moment, since I can tell you’re driving.”

“It abates when I’m around Shawn.”

“Abates? Well, that’s unusual. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’m going to ask around the spirit world and see if anyone knows what’s going on. I’ll also talk to a hunter friend of mine, and see what could possibly have the power to swing something like this,” Pamela sighed suddenly. Lassiter was merely mouthing the word ‘hunter’ to himself, clearly confused. “Psychic abilities don’t usually come out of the blue. I’m not saying this has to be a bad thing, but be careful detective. You too, Shawn. Let me know if things turn worse.”

“Thanks Pam, I’ll keep my eye out for anything nasty.”

“You do that. And Detective Lassiter? Keep close to Shawn, but if you can’t try to focus your energy. Concentrate on just one thing. It’s a bit like trying to learn to ride a bike; it takes a bit of getting used to and a lot of balance. A teaspoon of salt every once in a while can help, too.”

Lassie pulled a face, but the psychic had already hung up.

* * *

 

Trails of people and emotion bathed the crime scene alleyway like northern lights.

If anyone noticed Carlton and Shawn arrive together, no one commented on it. Gus, who was already there, wrinkled his nose when Shawn bounded over to greet him. Carlton was surprised at the sharp look Gus gave him, but mentally shrugged it off, turning his attention to the crime scene.

“Carlton! You actually look much better,” said O’Hara warily.

“Of course I’m better. Now, what have we got?”

O’Hara ran over the details as they walked past the police tape. “The limb was found at 7am this morning by that man over there. He’s refusing to give his name, says he doesn’t trust police.”

She pointed out a scruffy, emaciated looking man, who had ‘hobo’ written all over him. A name came unbidden into his mind, along with the image of the man’s wife dying off-duty in a car accident. She had still been wearing her police officer uniform.

“But he still raised the alarm?”

“I don’t think it was intentional. His scream caught the attention of McNab, who’d been walking back from the shops at the time.”

“Buzz! You do your shopping at 7am?” called Shawn.

Buzz, who lifted his head up at his name, shrugged. “Francie needed milk for her tea and we ran out. Wasn’t meant to take long.”

“I was thinking Shawn could psychically read the witness, since he’s clamming up with anyone official,” said O’Hara.

“That’s a great idea Jules!” said Gus, clearly ready to avoid the prospect of a severed limb.

Before Shawn could be dragged off though, Carlton grabbed him, making his handling seem intimidating. He leaned in close to Shawn’s ear and quietly relayed the hobo’s name and story. To his credit, Shawn played along, but gave him a small nod. Carlton didn’t want to let him go, but forced himself to. He didn’t need to be so needy; it wasn’t like him, anyway.

So, he followed O’Hara around the dumpsters and pulled on his blue latex gloves.

The arm had been flung from where it had been found in the closest dumpster, and as such it was slightly grazed from the concrete. The skin color was the same as the dead woman Carlton had seen in his dream. The limb itself was severed from the shoulder to the metacarpals on her hand. The fingers were missing from the scene, and the dissection edges were jagged and messy. A bit of bone protruded further than the flesh, several cut marks attempting to gain purchase on the strong bones.

But there was a bigger issue right now, and that was the increased static and blurring of his senses as Shawn walked further and further away to interview the witness. Distantly, he could hear Shawn yell and flail about as he had a ‘vision’. Carlton was distracted, but Pamela’s voice from earlier rose to the surface.

Concentrate. Find your balance.

Closing his eyes, Carlton knelt next to the limb, focusing until the only people he could hear were those immediately around him. Instead of having a kaleidoscope to deal with, by listening instead of ignoring he found he had better control. The first person he managed to focus on was O’Hara, who was feeling uncomfortable in her new shoes. Then he identified a man from forensics ( _Peter Simon_ ), who was wondering over and over in his head whether he’d locked the front door. A third emotion was present too though, and he zeroed in on it, focusing and straining to listen to it, to feel it. The emotion was panic, fear, and smacked slightly of old pizza. He shook his head, identifying it as belonging to the witness.

Reaching out, he softly touched the victim, her skin as soft as he remembered through the latex gloves. He felt stale bitterness and betrayal but nothing more: the woman’s. Then, a small, strange draft of loss brushed by him. The emotion had once been powerful, but it was old and faded, overlaid by several hours of activity. He cupped it gently in his mind’s eye and brought it to his lips. It was a strange panging, loss and finality rolled into one, with a slight dusting of malice. He could glean nothing more from it, and opened his eyes. Oddly enough, as he was still focusing on it, he could actually see the emotion, blurred colors of dark yellow and bright purple, hovering in the air like a faint residue. He was aware of other colors, but he ignored them, following the trail with his eyes. It went from the alleyway to the dumpster, then up. Frowning, Carlton heaved himself up onto the dumpster and traced his hands above his head along the hazy brickwork. His gloved fingers stopped at a change in texture. It was smooth and circular.

“Simon,” he called. “Yes, you! Get a ladder. There’s something in this wall.”


	5. Chapter 5

Carlton’s find turned out to be a small camera. It was high tech and wireless, with an ability to transmit images to an external device. Wedged beneath it had been a small note, written in newspaper cut-outs. It read: _Put her bacK, o R Else._

Forensics was currently tracing the camera and the newspaper used for the note. Autopsy was taking blood type, DNA, ToD and examining the cut marks and hypothesizing a CoD. This meant that the detectives were left to debrief and collate information.

“That was amazing,” said O’Hara. “How did you know it was there? There must have been a dozen people at the scene today.”

“All part of the job. I thought something looked out of place,” the lie was flat, but he delivered it with surety. “So I investigated.”

“Great detective work, Detective,” said Chief Vick. “Also, good job on the witness Mr. Spencer. We need to find the rest of that body, preferably a face, or fingerprints. I need to have this wrapped up as quickly as possible. The media would have a field day with this. Shawn, Gus — consider yourself officially hired on this case.”

“You’ve made a good decision, Chief,” said Shawn, grinning. Guster simply looked relieved that they finally had the promise of official employment for once. “I have a feeling you will definitely have use for some psychic vibrations on this case.”

That made Carlton smile slightly. His antics at the crime scene this morning had left him drained and with a headache which was only just starting to ease. Shawn’s foot was resting uninvited beside his own, and he was grateful for the grounding that gave him. It did make him feel like a rechargeable battery, and his mind wandered off to this morning, before the crime scene, when he awoke with the con man in bed. His bed, with him. Some emotion eddied up in his gut and he pushed it away. He needed to focus for this case, not go down the rabbit hole and think about _feelings_. Not that he was afraid of feelings, but that they were sometimes simply too much effort, too many of them, to waste time on working out. He pushed them away and breathed.

A lackey knocked at the door and brought in a file. It was the initial findings on the camera.

“Says here the camera is made by Llewellyn Lightboxes, an IT company founded here in Santa Barbara,” Juliet read out.

“Llewellyn Lightboxes? I’ve heard of that,” said Guster. “They have been dabbling in high tech video cameras.”

“Dude, how do you even know that?” In his haste, Shawn moved his foot away from Carlton’s, and he tried not to feel too disappointed. 

“I was researching webcams, Shawn. They were well reviewed. But,” and Guster shook his head. “Their products are way too expensive for what they do.”

“So whoever used the camera had to either been reasonably financially secure, or had access to the cameras?” said O’Hara, face thoughtful.

“Says here the camera’s the _Speed Light Platinum Mark II_. Only four were sold in this area, and its recommended retail price was nearly $3000 dollars.”

O’Hara raised her eyebrows. “Make that very financially secure.”

“Do we have a list of owners yet?” he asked.

“Not yet, it seems the company wants to protect its customers at the moment.”

“Perhaps we should pay them a visit then. Get the list, and check out their employees while we’re at it.” He acknowledged O’Hara with a tilt of his head, and felt her inner self smile.

“Sweet!” cried Shawn. “Let’s check it out.”                                                                                                                 

* * *

How Carlton managed to wind up driving to the Llewellyn Lightboxes offices with only Shawn in tow, he wasn’t really sure. He had suggested to O’Hara that he needed someone at the station to investigate the Coburn homicide, but beyond that, he was fairly sure Shawn had convinced everyone with a quick whirlwind of energy and an easy smile. Guster remained in the department with O’Hara, to assist her with whatever she might need. The warm spark he got from Guster when he brushed past him on the way out told him that he was very happy at that arrangement.

The office itself took up an entire floor and, as they had called ahead, a perky assistant was ready to greet them.

“Hi, I’m Casey, head of marketing, and I’ll show you around today. If you have any questions for any of our staff, please put them through me first so I can monitor and negate any if I need to. As our guest, I hope you will appreciate our position.”

Casey Turnbridge wore her hair in a severe bob with straight bangs. Her accent was slightly southern and her inner self seemed walled, in a way different to the vacuum Shawn was providing. He was tempted to push against the incorporeal wall, but he resisted, knowing what it was like to value privacy.

She led them past a few conference rooms, and cubicles.

“How many people work here?” asked Carlton. Focusing past Shawn, he could sense at least 60 people, but he wasn’t sure if he was including people from floors above and below too.

“We’re a relatively small company, with a philosophy of ‘keeping things cozy’. As such, we have 20 full time employees, not including myself, and up to 50 casual or part timers,” she recited. “Most of those work from home, however, and deal with the actual writing and debugging of code involved in our products.”

“And who’s the head?”

“That’s Michael Llewellyn. His sister is vice president; she is also a mother of four.”

“I wish to speak to him.” The person from his dream was definitely male. A large part of him hated that he was taking that as fact.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. He’s been at a conference in Los Angeles for the past few days. After that, he's taking a few days of vacation before returning.”

“I want details of that conference.”

The woman pursed her painted lips. “Mr. Llewellyn won’t like that.” At least she didn’t say no.

“We will also need the list of people who have bought the _Speed Light Platinum Mark II.”_

“Now, that’s definitely not possible, Detective. Unless you have a warrant, which you don’t. We take customer confidentiality very seriously here, you must understand.”

“Have you noticed any of the stock going missing?”

“I wouldn’t know. I could refer you to Thom, though, he’s in charge of stocktaking.”

Thom was a greasy potato of a man. His bald head glistened under the strobe lighting and his white shirt was yellow around the edges. If the body odor wasn’t enough, his crushing handshake was utterly vile. Touching his skin, Carlton got images of whips and chains, and would have swayed and fallen had Shawn not chosen that moment to brush his fingers along Carlton’s other hand.

“This is Head Detective Lassiter and Shawn Spencer.”

“I’m head psychic for the SBPD,” said Shawn, and actually stretched his hand out to shake. Thom, however, froze and dropped his hand in a clear refusal.

“I didn’t think the police employed conmen. Psychic. Ha—frauds, the lot of you.”

“Is that why you recently had your hand read at the county fair? Well, I think I’m done here. Mind if I steal you for a moment, Casey?” Shawn gave her a winning smile and sauntered out the door. 

Carlton turned back to Thom, not bothering to hide his hostility. “I was wondering if any of your stock had gone missing. Particularly the _Speed Light Platinum Mark II.”_

“No one would want that piece of overpriced crap,” Thom shook his head, then paused, considering. His oily presence seemed to fill the room and Carlton was overcome by a need to get out, just to be able to breathe.

“Actually, I did notice a few gone the other day. That, and a couple of other remote-transmitting models,” he said. He brought down the bookkeeping and checked it with the boxes of shelves behind him. Carlton looked over the man’s shoulder. Sure enough, there were a few spaces missing in the neat rows. “I thought they were just being used for testing. Beta testers never tell me anything, anyway. Just want to get in and out.” The man leered at him and Carlton stepped back.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Dawkes,” he said, forgetting he’d never been told the man’s last name, and rushed out of the door and collided into Shawn.

Casey Turnbridge was there beside the consulting psychic, and he turned to her, smoothing down his suit.

“Just one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Have you noticed anyone acting suspiciously in the company?”

Casey shook her head, then reconsidered. “I never liked Thom,” she confessed. “And I think Andy from design might be stealing from the kitty. But as for suspicious, well no, not really. I noticed the lights on late two nights ago, when I drove past to collect my daughter—it was her dance recital—but that could have just been someone working overtime.”

* * *

 

“Here’s the customer list.” Shawn held out a piece of A4 paper.

Carlton took the paper. Not only was it the list of customers, but also had the details for Llewellyn’s conference, down to the hotel room he was staying in.

“How did you get that?” But Shawn merely shrugged and didn’t offer anything more.

“I don’t like Dawkes.”

“Dawkes? You mean Thom? I don’t know Lassie, he kind of looked like a Pixar villain cookie-cut out. A bit too obvious, don’t you think?”

“I saw whips and chains.”

Shawn waved his hand in dismissal. “He had been watching porn just before we walked in. Kinks do not make a killer.” 

Carlton thought back to how he’d shaken the man’s hand and grimaced. He turned over the car’s ignition and had to listen out for the engine starting over the soft static in his head. He was just pulling out when his cell rang. He protested loudly when Shawn snaked a hand into his suit pocket to retrieve it.

“Jules!”

“Oh hey Shawn. Is Lassiter there? I must have called you by mistake,” came her voice over the loudspeaker.

“No, I’m here too. What have you got for me?”

“A dead woman down in the Mesa.”

“When did this happen?”

“The call came through not five minutes ago by the woman’s girlfriend.” O’Hara gave the address.

He could hear her shuffling papers on the other end. “Want to know what else we found out? Both Coburn and the severed arm tested positive for Hepatitis B.”

“The severed woman was Jenny Coburn’s john?”

“Don’t hate against homosexual hookers, Lassie,” interrupted Shawn. 

“Well, at the very least they were possibly sleeping together,” said Jules.

“So the cases might be connected.”

“Possibly? I’ll see you soon,” her smile audible. One case would be easier to deal with than two separate ones, manpower-wise.

Shawn was grinning, and when Carlton caught his eye, the younger man exclaimed, “I love it when a plan comes together.”

“Right well, come along Hannibal.”

* * *

 

“The liver temp says she was killed three hours ago. About an hour after the arm was found,” Jules was explaining. “Her name is Vivian Daniels, and she was known around this area as an activist for gay rights. Her girlfriend, Brianna Fernandez, is currently being treated for shock, but she said she went looking for Vivian after she didn’t show for lunch at 1pm.”

The motel room consisted of plastic furniture and beige. It was the sort of cliché hooker hotel room that you never thought actually existed outside of a _Dexter_ episode. He walked around the scene, staying close to Lassie. 

The girl’s body was haphazardly splayed across the linoleum floor. Unlike Jenny Coburn, she hadn’t been moved after death. Shawn’s keen eyesight studied the strangulation mark around her neck, and saw, the same as before, a few brilliant cornflower blue fibers.

He put a hand to his head. “I’m getting blue! Yes, this woman was strangled in the same way as Jenny was.”

Tacked up on the wall was an A4 sheet, with newspaper cutout words saying,

                                                                                        “ _I ToLd YOu t0 pUt h_ e _r BacK. LeaVe her aL0ne or ANOther 1 DieS.”_

Shawn looked at the words and saw they were cut from the same paper as before. Once again, the font looked familiar, but it was sort of generic, and could have belonged to a hundred publications. The capital “T” however, was less generic. He thought back, comparing it with his mental catalogue of newspapers and pamphlets currently lying around the Psych office. The letters suddenly lined up.

“Apples!” he gasped. “I’m seeing apples! Apple Jacks? No, a big apple.”

“New York?” guessed Jules.

“Yes! And it’s asking me for my watch?” he twitched his wrist and let it drag him around. “But that doesn’t make any sense, why would an apple need to see my watch?”

“The New York Times!” Bless Jules, always willing to participate in his game of charades.

Shawn looked at Lassie, who in turn was looking slightly green. The way he kept swallowing seemed like he was trying to push something away. Immediately, Shawn stepped to his side and pressed as close as American customs allowed.

“Forensics’ looking for a camera, but so far we haven’t found any,” said Gus.

“We won’t find any,” Lassie said under his breath. Shawn did a quick stock-take of likely nooks and crannies. It wasn’t thorough and he couldn’t be sure, but he opened his mouth anyway.

“The spirits agree with Detective Lassiface,” Shawn announced. “No camera has been planted in this room.”

* * *

Lassie was silent for the entire drive to the precinct. As they pulled up to the parking lot, Shawn put a hand on the detective’s thigh.

“You alright in that old body of yours, Lassie?” he asked. “I get the sense—”

“Spencer, I know you’re not psychic now, so you can just stop this clown malarkey say, for, oh forever.”

“Ah, you can’t read me, right?”

Lassie’s jaw was tight. “No,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Then I’m still psychic.”

Lassie shot him a glare, but the blue eyes softened slightly as he recognized the admission. “I just wish I knew how you did it.”

Shawn looked away, hearing the unspoken _“so I can do it too.”_ They parked, the air tense. Shawn itched to diffuse it. Of all the times to develop a brain-to-mouth filter.

Lassiter sighed. “There was so much rage in there. He really hated and wanted to hurt. Desperate, too. He makes me sick.”

“Don’t sweat it, Lassie-face. We’ll get him,” Shawn offered a smile he hoped was reassuring.

“Yes,” said Lassie, squaring his shoulders, seemingly coming to a resolution. “I will.”

Shawn’s hand slid off Lassie’s leg as the other man got out of the car, his throat suddenly dry.

Inside the building, Lassie was all business. Shawn watched him out of the corner of his eye as he subtly rifled through the reports on the man’s desk.

“O’Hara, I want a background check done on Thom Dawkes,” Lassie handed her the list that Shawn had obtained. “Check these people too. Find out about Llewellyn’s conference. I want an interview with the man by tomorrow. McNab!”

Buzz handed Lassie his coffee, steaming in his _Cop #1_ mug. Before taking it, Lassie fished out his wallet and slid out a couple of band-aids. Buzz took them, a confused look on his face. Shawn wished he could read Lassie’s lips. Peeved, he focused on who might be getting the band-aids. He flashed back to cuts and scrapes of the morning. Buzz had a cat scratch (and hey! The Little Boy Cat was still around) but it wasn’t anything that needed closing. A con was in the waiting area with a gash on his head, but it was days old and Lassie wouldn’t bother helping those he thought beneath him. No one else came to mind. Shoes, then.

Ah, Jules had been sporting a new patent leather pair of pumps. He’d noticed she’d stood an inch taller than usual.

“Jules!” he grabbed her arm as she walked past him on the way to her desk.

“Shawn?” she had her confused chipmunk and ‘I’m actually busy’ face on.

He put his hand up to his eyebrow in his ‘badass psychic’ gesture. “I sense some pain is going to ease shortly.”

He watched her walk back to her desk, greet Buzz and get handed the band-aids. Jules looked back at him with an eyebrow-raise, obviously impressed.

Shawn was reclining in Lassie’s chair, reading the toxicology report on Coburn with Gus when Lassie finally got back. He held a few fresh reports under his arm… ah the preliminary on Daniels from Woody.

“Spencer, get out of my chair,” he said. His face was slightly pinched, but not in his usual ‘I want to kick you five ways to Tuesday’ face. It was almost uncomfortable.

“Miss me?”

“Never.”

Shawn grinned. “I have it on good authority that I’m a very missable person.”

“That’s not even a word, Spencer. Now, move.”

Instead, Shawn handed him the tox report. When Lassie glared, he pointed at a nearby empty chair. It was straight backed and wooden, and he could feel the need for a masseuse from just looking at it. Lassie gave in after a moment though and dragged it over, a real scowl on his face.

“You were right. She was drugged. By drugs, though. Heroin. Could have taken it herself.”

“It could have incapacitated her to some extent though,” said Gus. “Enough to make it easy to strangle her.”

Lassie scrubbed at his face. When he emerged, he was red and smiling. Lassie’s smiles were generally slightly scary. This was a mega-scary one. “Guster,” he said. “I want you to get me a bag of salt.”

“You say you want me to get _what?”_

“Salt. You’re employed on this case. Go get it.”

“Where am I meant to get salt from?”

“There are little salt sachets near the coffee.” Shawn knew this because he had, on several cases, ‘accidentally’ mixed them into the sugar next to them.

Gus went, complaining. He returned a minute later, dropping a handful of the bags onto Lassie’s desk.

They both watched, slightly disgusted, as Lassie tore one open and swallowed its contents.

“Is this a slow suicide attempt? I’ve got the name of a good councilor who could help.”

“Go away Guster. You too, Spencer.”

“Shawn, can I speak with you a moment?” Uh oh, Gus was pissed.

With some reluctance, Shawn relinquished Lassie’s chair and let himself be led into a quieter area.

“What’s going on?” Gus crossed his arms and looked down at Shawn from lowered lids. Like always, it might have been more intimidating if he were actually taller.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” said Gus. “By now we’d be staking someone out, breaking into something or going undercover. Or any manner of illegal activities.”

“One: I’m fairly sure going undercover isn’t illegal.”

“It’s fraud. And—but we’re not, that’s the point. What’s going on with you? And why did you sleep over at Lassie’s last night. Don’t think of denying it, you can’t fool the ‘super sniffer’.”

“I admit it; I stayed the night at Lassie’s. He was concussed—and he asked me to dude! What was I to do?”

“Let me get this straight. Lassie, Detective Carlton Lassiter who fires shots at a cat show, asked you to stay the night.”

“Straight, bent, tom-ay-to pot-ah-to.”

“You’re not serious. Tell me you’re not serious Shawn!”

“I thought you’d be happy for me, man. Fine, nothing really happened. He really did just need someone to take care of him. I even made him chicken soup.”

“Oh, so you’re the one with the suicidal tendencies. I get it. Just ignore me more though, I think you haven’t done it enough.”

“Low blow, Gus. Besides, there’s just not enough to go on yet. I think we should wait and get some more pieces of the puzzle.”

“You mean wait for a few more pieces of woman to turn up? No thanks. You read that note, it said if we find more pieces, more die. People, Shawn.”

“Trust me on this. Although, you could interview Coburn’s friends. I’ve got a feeling she’s where it all started.”

“Me? Why me? Where are you going to be in all of this?”

“You… could take Juliet.”

“?”

“!”

“Whaaaat!” Fistbump.

“You know that’s right.”

Gus looked slightly mollified, but turned back to Shawn before walking away. “I hope you know what you’re doing. I don’t want to be picking up _your_ pieces if this doesn’t work out. We’re all out of doritos, for one.”

“Everything will work out fine,” he responded, with more conviction than he felt. Gus had already walked to Jules’ desk when Shawn found himself calling out: “Get doritos and ice cream when you’re done buddy! Caramel!”

* * *

 

A bajillion hours later, Shawn was bored bored bored.

He’d returned to Lassie, ignoring the man’s threats to have him dragged away to a holding cell. He’d even taken up the wooden chair at Lassie’s desk and rifled through all of the reports relevant to the case. And then all of the reports not relevant. And then other case files. He made notes in highlighters in margins, giving hints like ‘why is there a pen missing’ or ‘the butler did it’ (he totally _had_ , which was awesome; it was obvious that he was stealing from his employers). He’d even started hiding post-it notes around Lassie’s workspace when he was most engrossed in his work. Like ‘if life drops a rock on your head, check first to see if it’s a pineapple :)’ or ‘you’re somebody’s reason to masturbate’ and ‘give your tie back to the rainicorn, Lassie-face.’

Now, he was throwing a yellow pencil at the ceiling. It wasn’t embedding itself, possibly because it was a concrete ceiling, but he wasn’t a man to give up. Well, not just yet.

The case, in a nutshell:

Arm was cold, blood analysis saw signs of refrigeration, but not total freezing. Looking for a large freezer, or cool room, then. Jagged cuts, perpetrator not used to cutting up bodies. Sheet of contacts for camera seemed to check out. Forensics had managed to trace the camera transmission to the Santa Barbara region, but no further. Whoever it was, knew enough about covering his virtual tracks.

Boring.

The phone rang.

Lassie’s hand went as quick to the receiver as Clint Eastwood’s did to his gun in _The Good, the Bad and the Ugly._

“Detective Lassiter.”

Jules’ voice was too soft for Shawn’s ears to pick up.

“Was she paid?”

Grunt.

“Who else knows?”

Beat.

“Great. Have you contacted Llewellyn yet?”

Muffled answer.

“That’ll do. Good work O’Hara.”

“So!” Shawn grinned.

“So, what, Spencer?”

“What did Jules say?”

Lassie nodded, but pursed his lips slightly. “Coburn experimented with heroin after going off her anti-depressants cold turkey. Took to prostitution to keep up her addiction. Those who knew her say she was getting better, though. Starting at least a month back. Juliet spoke to someone who says that it was around this time a dark skinned woman started visiting Coburn. The witness wants to remain anonymous, unfortunately. They didn’t say if it was business or pleasure, but it’s likely they were sleeping together. And I have an interview with Llewellyn over Skype at 9am tomorrow morning. He’s still at his conference, says he doesn’t think this matter concerns him enough to make an effort for a proper interview.”

“So the witness could identify the body?”

“Theoretically. It’s a lot harder when they are ‘unreliable.’ 65% of police sketches are inaccurate, but I’ll try anyway.”

“Curry then.”

Lassie’s blue eyes were tired and confused when he met Shawn’s hazel ones.

“Starving. Drive thru. Dinner. It’s 20:32 according to your watch, and that must make it at _least_ nine in the evening.”

“You can’t drive thru a curry Spencer.”

“Then what did Burger King give me last week?” Shawn was momentarily side-tracked.

But Lassie shook his head. “Get your own dinner. I’m going home,” Lassie sighed and began to pick up his stuff. “Alone.”

“My bike’s at yours,” said Shawn, voice somewhat small. He brushed passed the feeling with some difficulty. “It was just a one-off thing, I get it. You’re a big boy now, getting off your training wheels and onto the dune buggy.”

“Fine, I’ll give you a lift there.”

* * *

 

Carlton sat on the edge of his bed, glass of scotch in one hand, aspirin in the other. Since Shawn had left him in his car, talking and whining about some movie or television show, and gone away on his motorcycle, he’d consumed four packets of salt. He didn’t want to take any more, remembering some urban legend from his academy days, about death through salt consumption. Whether that was true or not, he didn’t like the taste of a whole teaspoon of salt anyway.

He took the aspirin to soothe his thumping head. The scotch burned pleasantly, and he felt the world spin and dull. Another glass should do it.


	6. Chapter 6

_He felt cold. The world was fluorescent blue light and white. Then his vision cleared, and he saw his angel sitting down. Her dark hair fell across her face, which pitched forward now that it wasn’t supported by a spinal column. She was missing her arms and legs, head cut from torso, making her look like a bloodied Barbie doll, but at least he still had her fingers. He’ll keep her identity, it was his duty to. He was resigned, and a little bit disappointed. One arm was found. So easily._ Rage _. Won’t be long before the other one will be too, he realized, as his fingers grazed her bare shoulder._

_Bin bags. Duct tape. Methodical. It was so upsetting to hide her, say goodbye. But it must be done. He had waited too long already. Spent too long saying goodbye. He packaged all her limbs up except for her head and fingers. Curiously, he prodded at the exposed flesh of her index finger, feeling the cold squish of muscle. Drawing his hand away, he saw he was now bloodied, and felt a sick rage._

* * *

 

The phone was in his hand before he realized, and Shawn’s voice spoke suddenly in his ear.

“Lassie?” the man’s voice was sleep-thick, but had a taint of worry. Carlton felt sorry for waking him.

“Get… your ass over here Spencer.”

“Black hole?”

“Black hole,” he agreed.

He could almost hear Shawn’s smile. “Won’t be 20 minutes.”

* * *

 

By the time Shawn had been buzzed up to his apartment, Carlton had spent 15 minutes swimming in the most colorful world he had ever experienced. He’d never done marijuana, but he figured it would be something like this. Everything glowed and rippled and ripped and shadows sucked light like Spencer sucked… smoothies. He felt so much, even now like he would burst with feelings and loss and love and pain… Balance was a little trickier than he remembered, too. He sloshed about a glass of water (his third, now), and groped around for the door handle to let Shawn in.

Shawn looked at him for a few moments and Carlton stared back at him, enjoying how solid the man looked in a background of undulating color and shape.

“Have you been drinking?” asked Shawn, eyes squinting.

Carlton nodded, ashamed.

“And let me guess: it didn’t work?”

He shook his head. Then wondered if that meant he was not agreeing with Shawn. He nodded, then paused, changed his mind and shook his head again. “Didn’t work,” he clarified.

He found his glass of water pressed to his lips, and he looked up at Shawn with wide eyes. Up. Huh, he didn’t remember sitting down.

“Not drunk,” he felt he needed to defend himself.

 “I believe you, Lassie. Just a little under the weather, eh?”

Carlton smiled, glad to be understood. Shawn smiled back and Carlton drank some more water for him. A little bit of water must have missed his mouth, because Shawn reached out and swiped his bottom lip with his thumb. He heard a gasp at the gentle touch, and realized it might have been his own. Not that he could help it, since the world suddenly clicked back into place with that single, sobering touch.

Shawn was still holding his chin, he realized, and opened eyes he didn’t remember shutting. Shawn let his hand drop, but the touch was replaced by another one a second later.

And now, his hand linked with Shawn’s, Carlton let himself be led to bed.

* * *

 

The giant undulating emerald glittered in the morning dew and stretched like a cat into a yellow horizon. Behind him maize crops waved and an old redbrick farmhouse brooded. He thought he could smell his Grandmother baking cookies.

A cookie appeared in his pocket, and he gave it to the grizzled roan mare who had been with him all along. She did not take it, but nuzzled his now empty hand. She was happy and that made Carlton happy. She understood him, in that silent, dependable way that horses had.

A frisson of worry slid through the day and he gentled the mare. He followed her gaze though, and found himself looking at a bay colt. Even though he had been nearly a mile away, it only took two steps for him to reach the yearling.

From afar, the roan watched with gentle eyes as he combed his hands through the yearling's dark mane. It was surprisingly soft and he held the warm colt closer, flanks smooth and strong.

A bee buzzed by his ear and he twitched. The clovers by his feet suddenly swarmed with bees and he jumped. Jumped.

Jumped, right into wakefulness. The buzzing continued, and with a bleary head he located it to the other side of the bed, on the bedside table. Spencer’s phone. He let his head fall back into the pillow and snuggled in closer to Shawn. He heard buttons being pressed, then the thud of the cell phone returning to the bedside table.

“Dude,” whispered Shawn. “You’re totally snuggling.”

“ ‘ don’t snuggle.”

“Like a koala bear, Lassie.”

“No’ a bear,” he replied to the pillow. He drifted back to sleep to the feeling of Shawn’s body chuckling against him.

* * *

 

Carlton set down his second mug of coffee of the day next to the laptop keyboard and straightened his tie. Shawn had insisted he wear the light blue one he’d bought during that modeling case. Well, he hadn’t so much as insisted as he’d hidden all of his other ties.

His stomach rumbled and he put a hand over it self-consciously. He was still feeling a little dehydrated from last night and hadn’t yet eaten, too queasy. He could feel Shawn though behind the one-way mirror at his back, a balm to his hangover. Well, not that he was hung over, since he didn’t get hangovers, but it felt nice, anyway.

O’Hara was in a good mood too. She was a pleased hum of soft morning wakefulness. He focused on her, instead of the room. Years of emotional distress had painted the walls; it was ugly, garish and alive. A hulking beast and he was in its belly. The room, he was definitely not focusing on.

The laptop screen flashed an “Incoming Call” message, and Carlton clicked on the “Answer” option, hoping it was that easy.

It was, for once.

Michael Llewellyn appeared on his screen. The man was a redhead with brown eyes and stubble. A hint of a golden chain disappeared under his shirt— hiding a cross, Carlton guessed; he once owned something similar. Michael’s face and neck took up most of the shot, and the wall behind him was a generic off-white. Despite this, Carlton could tell the man regularly worked out from the strong tendons in his neck. He was slightly relieved, and a smaller part disappointed, that he couldn’t get an invasive reading off the man through the technology. 

“Michael Llewellyn?” asked O’Hara.

“That’s me,” the man answered.

“I am Detective Lassiter and this is my partner, Detective O’Hara.”

“Before we start, we just need to see some form of identification.”

A driver’s license was held up to Michael’s camera.

“Casey tells me this has something to do with some missing cameras? Forgive me if I’m wrong, but shouldn’t an item be listed as stolen before the police stick their nose in?”

“That is normally the case, sir, but—“

“But one of your cameras was found at a crime scene. Now, how did it get there?”

Llewellyn’s brow furrowed. “Well, I can’t be responsible for where my cameras are found, detective.”

“What we were looking for though, Mr. Llewellyn,” O’Hara mock-scowled at Carlton, playing good cop. “Are some answers. Now, is there any way to track where your cameras get transmitted to?”

“I’m sure tech support could help with that.” They’d tried, and they’d failed. Some mumbo-jumbo about bouncing addresses and not being able to pinpoint hardware. What those pasty techs needed to do was a bit of good old fashion leg-work and gather more evidence to better triangulate the location.

“We were thinking more along the lines of an override,” O'Hara hedged.

“The programmers know more about that than me, now.  But, I wouldn’t say that were possible. Anything else? I have a conference to get back to.”

“We were just wondering if you noticed anything suspicious at all in your company. Cameras missing, people coming in late…”

“Nothing. No, nothing of the sort.”

“Nothing at all?” he couldn’t keep the suspicious edge from his voice.

“Nothing that I know of. Good day, detectives.”

Then, the screen went blank.

“Talkative guy,” grumbled O’Hara. “He knows something.”

Carlton agreed with her. “And his alibi checks out?”

“Seems fairly air-tight. The hotel he’s staying at remembers a man matching his description. And the hotel records have his name listed as checked in. Plus, it’s at least a three hour drive there and back.”

He hated air-tight. “Whatever he knows, we’ll know it soon, too.”

Back at his desk, he looked at the numerous reports from every corner of the station. A thousand puzzle pieces stretched in front of him. People had worked hard compiling all the evidence, thoughts scratched in margins, sticky notes highlighting something they thought was important, notes meticulously detailed. But as detective, it was now his job to bring the pieces all together.

* * *

 

Shawn followed Lassie and Jules back up to the bull-pen. The office was a bustle of activity. Chief Vick must have people working extra shifts to help on the case. A whiteboard towered center court like some weird, flat polar bear and wow Shawn could really go for a drink of Coke right now.

Though Lassie didn’t show it overtly, Shawn was sure the man was happy.

Gus, that sweet saint of a man, came in with an opened soda can. Pepsi, but he could deal.

“Shawn!” exclaimed Gus as Shawn purloined the drink from his hand.

“Thanks buddy. No Coke though?”

“The machine was all out. Hey, I think I’ve found something. I was doing some research last night on that Llewellyn Company.” Research, meaning he Google-fu’ed, possibly even with quotation marks. He pulled a new bag off his shoulder and made to open it.

“Dude. Is that a man-bag?” It looked like a man-bag. Oh, that was _so_ a man bag.

“It’s not a man-bag, it’s a satchel.”

“It’s fuchsia!”

“And it goes with my belt.”

“Huh,” Shawn was impressed. “It actually does.”

Light footsteps were all the warning Shawn got before Lassie was behind him. Like, less than a foot. If he concentrated, which he totally was, he could totally feel the heat rolling off the man.

“What’s going on here?” growled Lassie.

“Gus found a lead.”

Gus puffed up. “I might be wrong on this, but the dismembered woman was black, right?”

“Yes, so?” asked Lassie, moving closer to Gus, eager.

Gus whipped some paper out of his man bag and held the top one up. It was of an event dinner, lots of people around a round table, holding up champagne in a toast. Casey, head of marketing at Llewellyn Lightboxes was there, as was Michael and a few other employees Shawn recognized. However, it was the woman sitting next to Michael who was of interest. Early 20s, small scar on her face (old, circular, probably from when she had chicken-pox as a kid), her hair a chocolate brown. She had a similar skin tone to the arm, just a little warmer and healthier looking, since she was actually alive. Dress was designer, like her jewelry. Diamond wedding ring, similar style to the one on Michael’s. She wore a blue silk scarf around her neck.

Lassie spoke. “That’s her. Michael Llewellyn’s wife, Lucy.”

Something in the man’s face told Shawn he wasn’t remembering the name from a file.

“O’Hara!” shouted Lassie, snatching the print-outs from Gus and striding over to his partner’s desk. “Get Michael Llewellyn back. We’ve got a plausible ID on the dismembered victim.”

Just like that, the station exploded with excitement.

And, just like that, Lassie’s eyes suddenly fluttered shut. It wasn’t like the clichés at all, time did _not_ slow down. In a split second Shawn saw him sway, and then topple like a Jenga game.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I apologise in advance for this chapter being rather metafictive and self-reflective. I couldn't resist it.

_He was in his cowboy pajamas and slippers. The smell of polished wood and the soft blanket of darkness. He crept along the landing, investigating a noise he remembered hearing._

_He had been here before, he remembers what happens next. His mother’s form below him, wrapped in the embrace of another woman._

_The woman had dark skin and hair, but to his horror she warped into Lucy Llewellyn._

_He screamed, or tried to.  
_

_His mother spun around jerkily like a puppet on a string. She fell to her knees, her hands to her neck._

* * *

His dream slid away like an eel in the water. He came to lying on a couch in one of the conference rooms. He focused on his surroundings; the couch had seen some things, and Carlton shuddered as he saw them too. Thankfully, Shawn’s hand slapped on his shoulder and the vision stopped before it got too explicit.

“You collapsed like a wet noodle, Lassie. Buzz had to carry you. Wedding style.”

“Wedding st—there better not be any photos of that, Spencer.”

Spencer squeezed his shoulder and shook his head. The psychic blocking, while normally welcome, just felt suspicious. He scowled and removed the hand. “You know what I can do if I find photos?”

He concentrated on the emotions in the room, which was hard with Shawn so close, and felt Guster’s panic roll off his pastel shirt. _Bingo_.

“Phone, now.”

Guster avoided his eyes and handed over his phone. It didn’t take long to delete the photos.

“How long was I out?”

“About three minutes,” said Guster. “I still think we should have called an ambulance.” Gus whispered the last part to Shawn, _sotto voce,_ and Carlton refrained from rolling his eyes.

“It was just low blood sugar,” he dismissed, aiming for a tone which brooked no argument.

The door banged open. O’Hara rushed in, adrenaline coursing through her veins like electricity.

“We’ve found the other arm.”

“Wait,” said Guster. “That means we only have an hour at best to find the guy before he kills again.”

“Nice summary dude!”

Carlton pushed past his partner and strode out the room. “Walk and talk, O’Hara,” he said. “What do we know about the Llewellyns?”

She kept pace with him as he headed over to the bullpen. “Michael Llewellyn has a record. One case of assault at age twenty and a DUI at twenty-two. It was fairly well hidden though, we only knew from paper copies. Buzz tried getting hold of him again, but no luck.”

“What about Dawkes?”

“No record, but doesn’t have an alibi either. I’ve asked for him to be brought in. Michael, well he used to do all the coding for his company before it expanded. His sister Ruth did too. She has an alibi for Daniels’ murder, at least—she was at her son’s presentation ceremony at school, at least a dozen witnesses can testify. Lucy Llewellyn was a trophy wife, volunteered down at shelters.”

He stopped at his desk, pulling on his jacket. He remembered something else and paused. In his dream last night Lucy was stored in cool room, a walk-in fridge. It hadn’t been too big, but it was big enough. He clapped his hands and drew the attention of the station.

“Everybody listen up! _Oi!_ The perp must have used a cool room to store Lucy’s body. Like one butchers use, but it’s smaller, intimate. Does anyone with any connection to Lucy have access to such a place?”

An arm shot up at the back of the room, and the woman it was attached to looked as though she was having an epiphany. Shawn suddenly swayed beside him and flung his arms out.

“I’m getting something!” cried the fake psychic, suddenly standing rigid, arms outstretched.

 _Wait._ His eyebrows drew together. “Michael was wearing a cross,” Carlton interrupted. “Does he have any other family?” Crazy, homophobic religious family.

“His twin brother owns a liquor store!” squeaked the woman in the back. Her name was something starting with ‘M’, but it could be Mouse for all he knew. “Liquor stores have cool rooms!”

Mouse got hold of the projector, turned it on, and placed on it a file. ‘Luke Llewellyn’: no criminal record. A small business photograph stood forefront; he shared his brother’s ginger hair. A business address.

Silence fell over the room. But not for long.

“Seriously, though. An evil twin brother? Who’s ginger? Could the universe get any less creative?” wondered Shawn.

“Not unless it was fanfiction,” Jules muttered.

“I hear that,” agreed Gus. Carlton pushed past the delay.

“Alright people! I want two teams: one to go to the crime scene. O’Hara, Guster, you two lead the investigation at the crime scene. Find that camera! Try to buy us a bit more time. The other team goes with me to the liquor store—find Luke. The rest of you, stay here. I want ears on any suspicious, red-headed activity, got it? Let’s go!” The station moved, a hundred feet and chairs scraping on the floor. He grabbed Shawn, grounding himself once more. “Spencer, you’re coming with me.”

* * *

The sirens roared and Lassie had his accelerator to the floor.

Shawn let out the niggling thought in his head, before it even had a chance to fully form. “What if Luke isn’t our guy?”

“The evidence against him is pretty darn damning, Spencer,” Lassie growled, intent on the road.

He wriggled about in his seat. “I don’t understand his motive, that’s all.”

“He is a psychopath,” Lassie said, shuddering. “You didn’t feel him chop up that body.”

“We’ve got about thirty minutes, tops. Not a lot of room for error.”

“No, it’s not,” agreed Lassie. “When I go in there, keep your distance. I want to—ah, read the scene.”

Lassie’s expression was pinched, more so than his usual pursuit face. “What’s up buttercup?”

“Nothing. Just, Spencer… could you call my mother for me?”

“Why?” he asked, not moving.

“I had a vision when I blacked out. I think she’s in danger.”

Shawn shook his head. “I was touching you, like, all the time.”

“You weren’t when I woke up.”

“ _Because_ you woke up. I pretended to take your pulse for nearly three minutes. I let go for barely three seconds at a time. Although—full disclosure-- except for when we took photographs. That was a whole six seconds,” Shawn paused, considering, a heavy weight settling in his tummy. “Are you becoming more powerful? Or me less effective?”

Lassie was quiet, eyes on the road.

“Why would she be in danger? Our ginger psychopath only goes for carpet munchers; it’s his _momentus operationus_.”

Lassie’s expression turned stony in a way that was too much to be pure annoyance at his phrase mix up, his slender hands gripping the steering wheel. _Oh_. Really? Well, that was unexpected. Shawn yielded and snaked his hand into the detective’s suit pocket, feeling heat, cheap cotton and lint, and unlocked the phone.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked as he scrolled through the contacts.

“Just put it on loudspeaker.”

Dial tone. “Booker?” came a bullhorn of a voice. It seemed to hit between the eyebrows and leave the back of the head with an exit wound the size of a cantaloupe.

“Mom. Where are you?”

“No, you’re meant to ask ‘How are you’. We’ve been over this before.”

“Mom.”

Silence, then: “What’s this about? Have you put me in danger?”

Shawn watched Lassie grit his teeth. “Where are you?”

“I’m in LA. Althea and I are about to go in and watch a production of _The Lion King._ You know, the one with the masks,” she said, softer.

As if cut from a string, Lassie’s shoulders relaxed. “Good, I’m glad. Just stay there and don’t let any redheaded men approach you.”

His mother’s reply was cut off as the phone was snatched from Shawn’s hand and flipped shut.

When they were within two minutes of the store, Lassie shut off the sirens and commanded that the other cops did the same.

“We don’t want to tip him off,” Lassie was saying. “Rushmore, Zeddin, cover any back entrances. Banderas, hang back and cover the road. No one goes in before I do, got it?”

They pulled into the parking lot. The store was closed. Shawn got out with Lassie, but was pinned with a warning look. Frustrated, he watched the man go inside, looking out for any danger. Lassie had a look of intense concentration on his face. His eyes were sharp enough to cut glass and his gun was cocked and braced. The detective moved around the back, out of sight. Quickly he came back, speaking into his radio. He ran outside before the other policemen could enter, and stopped at a parking spot. He looked out onto the road then ran back towards Shawn.

“What are you doing?” called Shawn.

“Following his trail. He left not long ago.”

Shawn spun about, looking for a trail or a sign of the man. All he could see were tire marks, which stopped on the bitumen road. “What trail?”

Lassie got into the car, starting the engine. “You’re too close. Get in the back,” he ordered. Shawn obeyed, confused. Lassie waved a hand about dismissively as he reversed. “His glow-y trail. It goes the other way down the 101. Towards State Street. We’ve got maybe ten minutes before he gets to where he’s going, maybe less.”

Shawn whistled. “Wow Lassie, you’re like some aura tracking dog.”

Lassie growled and shot him a look through the rear vision mirror. They stared at one another for a few seconds, like two pups trying to assert their dominance. Shawn did a little happy dance when Lassie looked away.

“You were right.”

“Ah—what?” when did Lassie ever say he was right about anything?

“This trail? It does not belong to Luke Llewellyn.”

Shawn ran through the list of people connected to the crime, getting the sense that he was missing something right in front of him. Then, he thought about auras and impressions and wondered if he had his own one. He hoped it was something bright and yellow, preferably pineapple shaped.

“My mother lives in this direction,” said Lassie, breaking the silence.

“Come on Carly, you heard her, she’s in LA. She’ll be safe. It was just a bad dream.” Silence. “Why would she lie?”

The dark head of hair shook, resigned-like. “I’m not sure.”

Shawn decided to let Lassie off his leash. “You can keep tracking it? It’s still fresh enough?”

“Keeps getting fresher, Spencer.”

“Eight minutes, Lassie.”

Lassie’s answer was to put his accelerator flat on the ground.

 

A little while of slightly terrifying driving later, Lassie rounded a corner into a side street and slammed on the brakes. A silver BMW was double parked a few meters away.

“Now’s not the time to deal out a parking ticket, Lassiepants.”

“That’s his car,” said Lassie. He actually shuddered as he looked at it. “Wait here.”

“No way.”

“That was an order! I'm not putting you in danger,” said Lassie, voice low. 

“There’s no way I’m letting you up there alone! You’d have to handcuff me, and we don’t have time.” Shawn hissed back. The ten minutes were already up.

A look of frustration crossed Lassie’s face, and he ran up the building’s fire escape. He paused outside a door, gun drawn. Through the door, a female voice could be heard talking. It wasn’t raised or distressed. A flicker of doubt crossed his face, and Shawn felt panic set in. What if they were in the wrong place? As Shawn listened at the door, a woman’s voice suddenly cut off mid-sentence.

Lassie didn’t wait any longer and kicked open the door.

“Freeze!”

Across the room was a blue silk scarf pulled taut around a young Asian woman’s neck. On the other end of the scarf was Michael Llewellyn.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guys, I can't believe it but we've reached the end! Thank you so much for all the positive comments and support; it really means so much. 
> 
> This fic marks several firsts for, which I didn't mention previously as it could scare people off. May still scare the finnicky reader off. Namely, the following: This is my first attempt at writing beyond 6000 words. It marks the first proper plot, the first slash story and definitely the first sex scene I've ever written! But this has been fun, and I can only hope you all have had as much fun reading as I have had writing.
> 
> In other news, Happy 50th Birthday Doctor Who!

 “Jenny Coburn, Vivian Daniels. Your wife, Lucy Llewellyn. The attempted murder of Monica Chan. We have enough evidence here to send you to prison for a very long time. Now, all we want from you is a confession.”

Lassie circled around Michael like a crow around the fallen. Jules sat across from Michael, her fair face stoic, unyielding.

“I didn’t do anything,” insisted Michael.

“We found you with a blue scarf, strangling Ms Chan,” said Jules.

“Auto-erotica asphyxiation,” argued the redhead. “She _wanted_ it.”

Shawn pressed his forehead against the one-way mirror, wishing he could be closer to Lassie. As it was, Lassie kept more to the side of the room with the mirror, and Shawn wanted to think it was because he helped. That Lassie, while learning his psychic powers with alarming alacrity, still needed him.

Lassiter smirked. “You had everything, didn’t you, Michael? A successful business, a loving family, a beautiful wife. Except your wife didn’t love you, did she?”

“I love her. She loved me.”

“Oh, you did love her,” drawled Lassie. “But she could never love you back. Married you for your money; you just weren’t her type.”

“She was a homosexual,” Jules said, tilting her head up to look down on Michael.

“Liar! She was normal.”

“Let me guess. You didn’t exactly have much of a love life, and you decided to follow her one day. Just to see what she got up to. You found her having an affair with Jenny Coburn.”

“I knew about the affair. Doesn’t mean I killed them. A prostitute. Not worth my time, detective. Anyway, she didn’t deserve Lucy; she tempted her like the devil. Lucy didn’t mean it. But still. I didn’t kill _anyone._ ”

“You confronted Lucy,” continued Lassiter. “She was wearing her blue silk scarf. The one you got her when you were first dating.” Michael was silent, fists clenched. Shawn watched the way Jules flashed Lassie a curious look. “You felt rage, Michael Llewellyn. You wanted to teach her a lesson, didn’t you? But she was dead before you knew it.”

Lassiter bent down and Michael was caught like a deer in the proverbial headlights. Shawn watched, with bated breath (or was it baited… which was the fish?). He was about to ask Gus, beside him, when Michael shattered. His face crumpled, concertinaed and collapsed.

“She should not be dead, my Lucy; I didn’t kill her,” the man whispered, voice cracking, tears rolling. He sounded so sincere that Gus, the darn sympathetic crier, gave a little whimper beside him. He kicked and shot Gus a sharp look. His friend nodded, and composed himself, albeit with some damp-eyed difficulty.

Lassiter suddenly lashed out, unable to keep his voice in check. “You did mean to kill the other ones. Premeditated! You asked your brother Luke to go to Los Angeles in your place. What was it you claimed? A nervous breakdown, perhaps? Can’t let a good hotel room go all paid for? _Go on brother, take a holiday so I can feel better_. You even offered to take care of his shop.”

“I did have a nervous breakdown. Luke can vouch,” said Michael coldly.

“You lied to us, Mr. Llewellyn,” said Jules.

Lassiter slammed his hand onto the interrogation table. “Coburn was first. You followed her to where she was squatting. Waited until she took her hit of heroin; didn’t take long, since she was heartbroken, thinking Lucy abandoned her. And you pounced. She fought back but you were stronger. You felt remorse at her death, since she was human, and you are a good little Catholic, but not enough remorse to stop you. You wanted to get her back at what she did to your Lucy, after all.

“But ah, you didn’t want to connect yourself to Lucy’s murder any more than you wanted to admit that you killed her. You had her in the cool room. It was only when you were cutting her up to better dispose of her that you decided to set up a negotiation, of sorts.”

Juliet was looking at Lassie suspiciously, but more in a ‘what are you trying to do’ manner than a ‘how did you know that’ way. Jules was very expressive like that.

“We,” Lassie waved his hands vaguely between him and Jules, “were not to find Lucy. Leave her be. You used your company’s cameras to watch us, make sure we behaved and put her back among the trash. Otherwise you would kill ‘another one’.”

“Another lesbian,” clarified Jules.

“No,” said Michael, voice soft.

“Yes,” Lassie positioned himself not a foot from Shawn, and looked into Michael’s eyes. “You may have loved your wife, but she died _hating_ you.”

“No,” repeated Michael.

“She was falling in love with Jenny Coburn. And Jenny was in love with your Lucy.”

“No,” said Michael, louder.

“They are all alike to you. _Whores_ , that is.”

Michael broke.

* * *

After most of the paperwork had been completed, Carlton went in search of Shawn. He looked down at the small handful of empty salt packets and huffed out a breath. The man had disappeared, and Chief Vick was yet to process his check. Focusing his senses, he wandered the station, seeking the tell-tale respite that was Shawn. He followed the lulling ripples of peace and void to the interrogation rooms.

He paused at the door, wondering why Shawn was still inside. He mustn’t have left after the interrogation—he looked at his watch—three hours ago. He turned the handle and let himself inside.

Shawn was on the ground, legs akimbo, eyes staring out into space. His right hand had been twitching nervously. Upon seeing Carlton, the man leapt up, smile quickly fixed on his face.

“So,” said Shawn. “Bad guy’s off to jail. Your mother’s still safe, and enjoying herself far away. A girl’s life now saved. You did good work, Lassie.”

“It was adequate, but yes, we did,” Carlton sighed, fingering his holster. “I need to tell you something.”

Shawn’s eyes went wide. “No you don’t. Not yet, I need to go first.”

“Spencer—”

“It’s just that when you said all those days ago that you thought you were mad? I think you got that half-right, or half-wrong… we’re both mad.”

“I—”

“I mean, half the fun in our working relationship is ticking one another off. That’s weird, isn’t it? At least, like I pull your pigtails and you play billy goat gruff. But Lassie. Big, Serious Shawn moment. I like working with you. You, with your bad suits and hair, stubborn as a rabbit, and anyone who doesn’t say so has never tried to put a rabbit into a hat. You hate listening to me, even when—no, _especially_ when it’s important and amazing. All of that just—look.

“You say that I’m like your black hole, that I help you. You once said that I astound… no, you know what? Never mind.” Shawn broke off, running a hand through his hair nervously. “But—you _inspire_ me Lassie. You’re like a thousand suns in a pink nebula with green tap dancers and little blue birds singing _Wham!_. No… you’re better than that, better than even my spirit animal the Chewbacca.

“You inspire me. Like nothing else could. And…” Shawn paused, wrapping his arms around himself in what was clearly a defensive gesture. “I never want that inspiration to stop.”

Carlton stopped Shawn with a hand on his shoulder. He allowed himself to smile.

“I see.”

“You do?”

“No, not exactly,” he admitted. “But I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me. I know someone that makes an alright chicken soup.”

“Alright?” Shawn sounded outraged, and Carlton swallowed thickly, fearing a misstep. He was about to remove his hand from Shawn’s shoulder when the man continued, “Only alright? Gosh Lassie, it’s a good thing you’ve got me then, best chicken soup chef in all of Santa Barbara. No, wait, strike that. Just Australia.”

With a sigh of what felt like relief, Carlton allowed himself a small smile. The two men leaned closer together.

“Have I? Got you, I mean.”

Shawn grinned, a real grin this time. “You better tell that other chicken soup hussy to move on. Because I’m the best damn chicken soup chef in all of Austria.”

“Shut up, Spencer.”

And he did.

Shawn’s lips were gentle and dry, a feather-light intake of breath against his own. The stubble was a strange sensation, but it was warm and he enjoyed the way it caught on his nose as he moved in deeper. He shifted his hand from Shawn’s shoulder to the back of his neck and pressed closer. Shawn kissed back softly at first, then with a moan let Carlton’s tongue slip inside to warm, wet heat.

His left hand was shaking by his side and he moved it to rest on Shawn’s hip. Shawn made a pleased noise and slipped his hands into Carlton’s jacket, sliding over his holster to grip at his shoulder.

And ass. He pulled back slightly as he got pinched. Shawn, the devil, just chuckled. Just how many hands did the man have? It was like kissing an octopus, for Christ’s sake.

With a raised eyebrow, he broke the kiss, gripped Shawn tight and pushed him into the wall. Shawn let out a soft moan and he took advantage of the younger man’s open mouth to plunder it again. Their tongues fighting for dominance while arms held Shawn against the wall. He moved a leg between Shawn’s and felt his head cloud with lust as their hips grinded together, arousal apparent.

The sound of his zipper being undone brought him back to a startling reality.

Reluctantly, he pulled himself away from Shawn and put space between them. Shawn, who looked utterly ravished with his mussed hair, swollen lips and blown pupils. He spared a second to ponder his own appearance.

“Lassie?” breathed Shawn. And damn it if he sounded like a child who’d lost their favorite toy.

He ran a hand through his hair, hoping to smooth it down in case it was out of place. “Hold it, Spencer.”

“Oh come on Lassie,” wheedled Shawn. “We’ve had at least two, maybe three—possibly even four—dates! Why don’t we give up the pretense of being hard to get?”

“Dinner,” said Carlton, and he hoped he put enough of his feeling (frustration, arousal, growing confidence) into his gaze. “Let’s get out of here first.”

“Dinner,” agreed Shawn, grinning.

* * *

They didn’t end up making dinner.

Instead, Lassie had Shawn cornered up onto the flimsy bench where the other night they’d eaten their chicken soup, and kissed him soundly.

Shawn was too distracted to notice how they ended up making it onto the bed. Distraction namely being Lassie’s skin. Each layer lifted revealed a new expanse of smooth, tasty tasty skin, and it was clearly his job to worship it all. There lived in his pectorals a tribe who made sacrifices to a great Irish demigod. His jawbone was a bridge over a dark abyss and like a pioneer explorer he ventured over the rough slopes. With his mouth, of course. He paid special attention to the man’s sternum bush somewhere in the hall, old fantasies that arose from fleeting glimpses suddenly real.

He paused at Lassie’s holster, which framed his mostly unbuttoned shirt beautifully. Lassie reached down and unclipped it, and Shawn suppressed a pout. The detective placed the gun within reach of his bed. Back to work. He slid Lassie’s shirt off of his shoulders, nipping and licking the skin as it was exposed, inch by hurried inch. Lassie gave a strangled sounding laugh and shoved his hands under Shawn’s boxers, palming his firm globes. He gripped hard for a second, and Shawn found himself briefly unseated, then he was bouncing slightly on the bed, straddled by a surprisingly nimble detective. Oh, it was on.

He decided to take his revenge by doing a quick one: peeling Lassie’s last layer off—his boxers. The man’s cock jumped free and Shawn felt himself practically salivate. He couldn’t help but compare it to his own, though he tried not to. He wondered briefly if girls did the same thing and mentally compared breasts. Which was ironic because if he had anything to do with it, oh _ha,_ he was not going to be thinking about anything other than Lassie now. Lassie’s everyday confidence really should have given him some warning on the size though.

“Hey big boy,” Shawn grinned, palming the cock and enjoying the gasp from above.

Lassie flashed him a look which somehow combined annoyance and arousal. Then, with a wicked grin, Lassie was gone. Then, so were Shawn’s underwear.

Huh, he must have been on his last layer too.

All trains of thought derailed and slammed into PleaseDon’tComeRightNowTown as Lassie took hold of Shawn’s dick. The man jacked it cautiously, arm movements slightly awkward, perhaps unused to the angle. The potential that he was the first man Lassie jacked off made him groan, surprising himself with possessiveness. He felt himself building up much too quickly and stilled Lassie’s hand.

“How do you feel about more?” he asked, in between peppering Lassie’s face with kisses. He rolled them over, allowing him to better access Lassie’s bedside table.

“More?” asked Lassie, voice rough.

Shawn opened a draw and found what he was looking for. He’d hidden lube and condoms in there last night, hoping at the time to at least give Lassie an embarrassed flush when he found them later. It was a good stash too, of various flavors, colors and some even glowed in the dark like a light saber for late night dick fights (if one was so inclined). Oh, this was a _much_ better outcome. He pressed a tube into Lassie’s hand, watching as the man’s face flickered between confusion, shock and utter arousal.

“Spencer—” he growled.

“More,” said Shawn, and he gave his best shit-eating grin. “Think you can catch up?”

Lassie met the challenge with a smirk, and flipped him over again. Shawn did not (however much it might have sounded like it) shriek as Lassie did so.

He did moan, though, as Lassie bit down on the curve of his shoulder. An arm reached down between his legs, and he splayed them eagerly, before deciding to wrap his legs around the detective’s torso. A click told him the lube was being opened, and he half held back a gasp as a wet finger circled his entrance. Pressure increased there until he was breached, the long finger slowly sliding in. It moved curiously about, then withdrew. Shawn moaned in disappointment, wanting to feel Lassie all over, in and out, joined as one. A second later two slick fingers entered him and he moaned at the stretch.

“Hang on,” Lassie grunted. “You’re _\--” unf._

 _“_ Damn, Carly,” gasped Shawn. “Have you been doing research?”

“I am thorough, Spencer.”

For the next few minutes, Shawn learned just how thorough the detective was. He raked his hands down Lassie’s back, clinging as the man stretched him—scissoring his fingers, brushing against his prostate every once in a while. He was aware he was saying insensible things, and quite possibly moaning like a porn star, but Lassie didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, his eyes when they met Shawn’s were nearly black, a thin electric blue line all that was left of his iris.

 _“Please.”_ begged Shawn _._ He reached down and removed Lassies fingers, trying not to whimper at the loss. He pushed Lassie onto his back, holding him there with a hand to his sternum, and blindly reached for the condom. He tore the package open with his teeth and placed the condom in his mouth, pondering briefly on the caramel flavor as he pinched the tip with his tongue. Slowly, he wriggled down the bed and rolled the condom down Lassie’s length. He spent a few moments enjoying the heady weight and warmth of the cock in his mouth. Lassie’s hand came to rest in his hair, twitching slightly with a truncated moan. He swallowed past his gag reflex and rolled it the rest of the way down, giving the cock a quick suck as he did so, inhaling Lassie’s musk.

Reluctantly he pulled off with a soft _pop_ and shimmied up to hover over Lassie’s prick. Lassiter grasped the base and helped line it up, his smile feral yet his eyes wide as saucers. The feel of the cockhead against his entrance nearly made him tense up, but he relaxed and took a deep breath, sinking down onto the cock. Lassiter’s thighs trembled.

After the initial penetration, he moved faster than he should have, the stretch immense and hot, and had to pause a few inches from the base to take a few breaths.

Lassie’s hand, the one which wasn’t gripping Shawn’s hip tightly, lightly brushed his face, the look on his face reverential. Shawn squeezed experimentally, and Lassiter groaned, snapping his hips automatically upwards. Shawn yelped. The burn and stretch was almost painful, but he ignored it and lifted himself again. He clenched, briefly worried the head would slip out, and Lassie let out a strangled sounding groan and pulled Shawn down again, bringing their lips together and consequently impaling him on his length before he was ready. Fully seated, the base of the cock seemed to tear at his entrance. Lassie grasped Shawn’s cock and pleasure/pain sparked.

He whimpered into Lassie’s mouth. Lassie froze with a soft curse and slowly returned his hips to the bed. But as he did so his cock knocked against Shawn’s prostrate. And sweet baby J, _this_ was what made it awesome.

“Wait, no don’t stop. That’s it, Lassie! Full steam ahead!” he exclaimed. Lassiter chuckled in return. Pleasure flared, and he sunk rapidly down on the cock again, ignoring the stretch in lieu of hitting that sweet spot again.

“Train metaphors… really Shawn?” Shawn laughed in response and gave the detective an open kiss.

Lassie started snapping his hips up, unable to hold back, pushing strongly against the tight resistance of Shawn’s channel. Shawn met his thrusts greedily, wanting more, seating himself entirely, filling himself up with heat. They got into a rhythm, pausing every now and then to grind, slow and deep and swap open-mouthed kisses.

Then Shawn was flipped over onto his back. He took a brief moment to wonder anew at Lassie’s strength (deciding it was simply the man’s ability to catch him off guard and his own ability to roll with it) when the cock reentered him with an almost brutal thrust. Pleasure sparked as Lassiter sawed against his prostate, balls slapping his ass as the cock drove to the hilt then back again. Shawn’s somewhat neglected cock was taken in a slightly calloused hand, and _seriously_ that level of coordination should not be possible. It was hot and dirty, and he was loving it. Inside and outside, frantic, wanting Lassiter, completely, utterly and entirely. Shawn dug his nails into Lassie’s back, and their mouths met a final time, rocking in tandem. 

A strangled “Lnrghsy” was all he managed to articulate, and then white light flashed as he came. Still riding his _petit mort_ cloud of awesome, a shout above him which coincided with a few particularly rough thrusts told him Lassie was coming too.

* * *

 

Carlton was collapsed onto Shawn, finding himself unable to worry about crushing the younger man with his weight. He felt safe and connected. As the world spun back towards more earthly matters he realized he was also sweaty and sticky. But sated, and sweet justice it was good. He grinned against Shawn’s neck.

“Amused?” asked Shawn.

“Happy.”

A long, calm moment ambled by. Shawn squirmed slightly, and Carlton sighed.

“Wait here,” he said, and wobbled into an upright position.

“Wh… Lassie?” called Shawn as Carlton padded out to the bathroom.

He didn’t bother with the door, simply grabbed his towel and ran the water until it was warm. The condom he threw into the trash. He moistened the towel, then splashed water on his face and neck and turned off the faucet. He froze, water dripping from his face, as he finally acknowledged the complete and utter silence around him. The clear shapes. The complete and utter normality. He shook his head once, twice, and all remained normal. He walked back into the bedroom. Shawn was stretched languidly on the bed, an unfocused smile on his face; the smile dropped upon seeing Carlton, and the fake psychic sat up.

“Lassie?” he ventured.

“I’m… cured.”

It was good news, wasn’t it?

“What?”

“I don’t think I’m psychic anymore,” he reiterated.

He wasn’t too sure if it was just his imagination, but he thought Shawn’s face looked worried.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. I suppose I need to text Pamela.”

“Now?” he asked, sitting down onto the bed.

“Now,” agreed Shawn, looking distracted. “I forgot, she texted to say she was sending someone down to help. And you… don’t need help anymore.”

“I…” He didn’t know what to say, so used the towel to clean Spencer up. Spencer went to grab it off him but he held onto it tight, stubborn.

“I mean, the last thing we need is some sasquatch of a guy coming in and wanting to know details. Poked, prodded, it’s not like anyone _wants_ that. ‘Sides, it’s probably a long journey and they shouldn’t _have_ to come out here for nothing.”

“I…” he tried again, his throat unhelpfully dry. “… I suppose it might be valuable if we experiment a bit more. Make sure I really am cured?”

Shawn’s eyes snapped up to meet Carlton’s and his face split into a grin.

“To be thorough?”

Carlton smiled back, relieved.

“Completely,” he agreed.

A few moments later Shawn paused around his nipple, giggling. “Really though, sex was the cure-all?”

 

 

Meanwhile Loki, who had been reclining on a cloud and munching his way through a bucket of caramel popcorn, barked out a laugh.

 

The End.


End file.
